


scramble

by IHadHimOnTheRopes (CarterReid), rory_gone_mattie (rosetinteddays)



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics), Justice League - All Media Types, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/M, Hurt Bruce Wayne, Identity Porn, Identity Reveal, M/M, Minor Clark Kent/Lois Lane, Misunderstandings, One-Sided Relationship, Pining, Secret Identity, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-12
Updated: 2019-12-13
Packaged: 2020-02-21 14:10:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 33,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18703900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CarterReid/pseuds/IHadHimOnTheRopes, https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosetinteddays/pseuds/rory_gone_mattie
Summary: The words on his skin were his everything. After everything he'd seen, done and been through, they were a reminder that Bruce Wayne still existed. That somewhere there was a person who would love him despite the coldness in his chest and the scars that roped their way across his skin. A reminder that he wasn't alone - that he wasn't destined to live forever in the shadows, silent and isolated. That somewhere out there was the other half of his soul.He just wasn't expecting the other half of his soul to be an alien.





	1. day zero

Bruce Wayne had spent years tracing the words on his skin, desperately pleading to the universe to just  _give him this one thing_  every time his thumb looped the 'g' and the 'f' and trailed off with the 'w'. The words had been his everything, even through the death of his parents, the hollow feeling when their murderer finally heaved his last breath, and the clawing sensation to run and fight until his lungs burst. Even when he was rebuilding himself, forging  _Batman_ in the heart of cold mountains and breaking his body over and over until he could stand the pain, the words were a reminder that Bruce Wayne still existed. That somewhere there was a person who would  **love**  him despite the coldness in his chest and the scars that roped their way across his skin. A reminder that he wasn't alone - that he wasn't destined to live forever in the shadows, silent and isolated. That somewhere was the other half of his soul.

He just wasn't expecting the other half of his soul to be an alien. 

He'd been waiting, patiently, for a moment of opportunity after the gala he'd been harassed into attending by Alfred had been overrun by men in animal masks demanding ransom money in the millions, when it happened. Things moved suddenly, and in slow motion. There was the shatter of glass, loud shouting, gunfire, screams: a carnage of images flicking over themselves, overlapping until it was just blurring colours and harsh sounds. Bruce remembered the image of a lion, pressing flush against him, arms dragging him to the side, before he was pushed backwards, toppling into thin air and flailing as he was shoved out of a forty-fifth story window. He'd braced himself, knowing that without his grappling hooks and his armour, there was no way he was going to survive the fall. 

Then arms were winding themselves around him and: "Don't worry, I've got you. You're safe; nothing's going to hurt you now."

 _His words_. 

Superman. His other half was Superman. And his brain shut off and his mouth moved of its own accord. 

"I know," he had replied, stunned but almost  _light_  for the first time in a lifetime, "you've been reminding me that every day for thirty seven years." 

The look on Superman's face was comical, right up until it wasn't.

His eyes widened into saucers before:  _"No._ " 

Bruce remembered frowning as he was deposited on the street, unsure as to the reaction. People hadn't spotted them yet, but between the two of them, it was only a matter of time. 

"I'm sorry Mr Wayne," Superman said, tone as cold as ice, "but there must be a mistake."

Bruce held back a flinch. "Mistake?" he asked instead, voice too quiet. 

"I'm  _Superman_ ," he hissed in reply, glancing around. "I'm sorry but I know what kind of person you are."

" _Kind_ of person?" Bruce parroted, heart dropping like a stone. 

"I read the tabloids Mr Wayne," Superman replied. "I'm well aware of your  _extra-curricular_  exploits, and your... _disinterest_ in your company. I'm sorry but someone like that is  _not_ my...m-my  _ **Soulmate**_." He shook his head. "This is clearly some sort of cosmic joke... or punishment," he huffed, speaking almost to himself now.

Bruce could feel the weight of the air around him, suffocating him slowly and pricking his skin like needles. Because of course. Of course. 

And suddenly the last trace of Bruce Wayne burnt into dust inside him and there was only the Batman left. And Batman didn't need a Soulmate. 

"Maybe," he eventually said, voice steady and unyielding. His business tone, his  _I'm-going-to-get-shit-done_  tone. "But at least I'm not cruel."

And he turned on his heel and strode away.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rights to DC of course  
> -M


	2. day five

Alfred, it seemed, had finally reached his limit. 

He'd been relatively gracious, giving Bruce space for nearly a week after what they were calling  _The Incident_ , but from his pursed lips and the heaviness of his gaze, things were coming to a head. In fact, had Bruce not already clad himself in Kevlar and a black cape as soon as the sun began to dip below the horizon, he was sure his surrogate father would have already staged the intervention he'd been planning for several days. 

In the end, Alfred waited until he'd stripped himself of his armour; hastily pulled on a t-shirt to hide the array of bruises that a pair of coked-out would-be robbers had managed to inflict before being quickly knocked unconscious and handed off to the nearest member of Gordon's team he could find; and slipped through the secret entrance into Wayne Manor before pouncing.

"Master Bruce," he greeted, tone anything but kind. It sent near shivers down his spine because while Batman may not  _fear_ anything, the notion of disappointing Alfred came considerably close. 

"Alfred," he returned curtly, continuing forward and ignoring the sensation of panic when the butler fell into step beside him. 

"As you well know sir, I have been rather generous this last week with your erratic behaviour," he began stiffly. 

"Erratic?" Bruce asked, stopping abruptly and turning, trying to ignore how his eyebrows had jumped into his hairline. 

"Yes, erratic," Alfred retorted, gaze frosty. 

"I fail to see how I've been  _erratic_ , Alfred," Bruce snorted, starting to walk once more. 

"These past few days alone you have taken several unnecessary risks, refused assistance from Commissioner Gordon and, on one occasion, demanded that he leave your case alone. You went looking for a fight with Catwoman despite her relatively lacklustre presence in the criminal world at the moment and when that failed, you went looking for Ivy. You have refused no less than nine meals, choosing instead to drink your way through the already depleted Wayne liquor reserves or spend several hours lugging tires from one end of the cave to the other. And just this evening you engaged several substance abusing criminals wielding machetes after little more than four hours of sleep and a protein bar," Alfred replied matter-of-factly. "This is all to say, Master Bruce, that you  _are_ acting erratically."

There was a long pause.   

"I always act like that Alfred," the billionaire replied, blue eyes narrowing.

Alfred seemed thoroughly unimpressed, fingers twitching enough that Bruce could tell he was trying not to fold his arms. "Master Bruce," he said, something almost irritated leaking into his tone. "I am more than aware of your usual antics. Particularly as I have been witness to most of them," he continued before his gaze and posture softened. "Please sir, your actions are beginning to border on self-destructive."

"Alfred-"

"Do not let his stupidity and cruelty define you. I understand you feel anger, and hurt, sir, but breaking your body is no way to process them." There was a desperate plea bleeding into the words and, for the first time since  _The Incident_ , Bruce had an overwhelming feeling of love. The honourable, loyal, respectable man before him, looking up through blue eyes, was speaking only from his love for his ward, and that warmed the darker parts of Bruce's soul for a moment. Until the clawing sensation that had claimed its place inside his chest opened up its jaws and swallowed that emotion whole.

He let out a long breath. "I never meant to make you worry, Alfred," he began, quietly. "But this is who I am. This is who I have to be. Batman has to take the risks for Gotham that others can't or won't take. This has nothing to do with _him_ , Alfred."

The man suddenly looked incredibly old and tired: as though in one moment his hair turned greyer, his gaze heavier and his body more frail. "The fact you won't say his name, sir, speaks volumes to how this is very much about him." He paused. "I've spoken my piece and I know you'll do as you always do. But I can only ask that you find something,  _anything_ , else to deal with these emotions, sir, before I end up burying another Wayne." With that, he turned on his heel and walked away, the clip of his shoes echoing off the empty walls of the Manor. Something gnawing clawed at his ribs until he took a long breath and shook himself. 

Because Alfred was right. 

As much as he'd like to deny it, his actions had been somewhat reckless, and dismissing Gordon hadn't happened since he first donned the cowl. So Alfred was right, he needed to  _deal_ with the horrible emptiness in his chest, because otherwise he'd end up isolating his last remaining family and he knew that was something he couldn't allow.

So how to deal with the problem that was Superman.

Well, Bruce thought, he could kill the alien. Although he'd have to compile some serious intelligence before even _attempting_ such a feat. Not to mention it would bring a level of scrutiny to Batman that would not only limit the effectiveness of his alter-ego but also restrict the willingness of law enforcement to either ignore him or work with him. Even those born and raised in the harshness of Gotham, who mocked the awe-struck manner in which Metropolis pined after their red-and-blue hero, would not take kindly to their Dark Knight striking down America's favourite son. 

So that ruled out  _permanently_ removing the alien from his life.  

He could retire from society for a while until his... _emotions_ were under control. But while Bruce Wayne going on an extensive vacation wouldn't be either extraordinary or unexpected - nor would his company be in particular danger with Lucius Fox running the show - he was  _not_ going to give Superman the satisfaction of driving him out of his own city, nor out of his well-oiled alias. Not to mention, of course, that Superman would know, or at least assume, that _he_ was the reason behind his departure. That made Bruce's hackles raise instantly. 

So that was gone too. 

He could uncover Superman's identity - because there was no way an alien who had been living on Earth for  _years_ didn't have a human identity - and  _ruin_ him. But, Bruce sighed, climbing the stairs to his room, that would be just as problematic. Firstly, Superman would want to know  _how_ Bruce uncovered his identity and Batman, the world's best detective, would be one of a very small number of people with that capability. Secondly, how he'd successfully blackmail an all-powerful alien still escaped him. Thirdly, as with killing the superhero, people might not take pleasure in a Gotham playboy blackmailing Superman, and even less if they discovered  **Batman** was actually behind the Brucie Wayne facade. 

So that meant he had to consider something more drastic.  

The thought that came to him was, in a way, inevitable. Not least because his options were limited and Bruce Wayne never did  _anything_ by halves. He redefined his life and world view when he became Batman - snapping off pieces of himself until he was sharp and dangerous enough to punch criminality in the face. He shut out the world by building a wall of secrecy so thick that only he and his surrogate father knew just who the real Bruce Wayne was. 

There was only one thing left then. 

Bruce took in a long, steadying breath. In a way, he should probably tell Alfred his intentions, he mused as he began to stoke the dwindling fire with a poker, watching as the embers were spit out. He tossed on a couple of coal lumps and waiting until the heat began to turn the flames white.

But Alfred was traditional. He loved deeply, and fiercely, and cared about the words on his skin. 

So Bruce wouldn't tell him. 

The man would find out, that was certain, but there could be anything from days to weeks to  _years_ before that happened and Bruce would have returned to normal long enough for him to cease panicking about his ward's extensive recklessness. 

He gently shut the door and clicked the lock before pulling his shirt over his head, taking a belt from his wardrobe and setting it between his teeth.

The poker he'd left sitting on the coals was glowing bright white. He took another breath and then, after barely a hesitation, Batman picked up the metal and burned Superman's words off his skin. 

 


	3. day two hundred and ten

Considering they occupied neighbouring cities, it took a startlingly long amount of time for Superman and Batman to meet. Even between their conflicting approaches and patrolling schedules, it shouldn't have taken so long for the wonder-boy in blue tights to seek out the darker cousin who lived next-door. Especially when you considered the alien's self-righteous need to inflict his sense of morality on others and the way Gotham tore into its own skin every night.   

He'd been perched on a roof, just out of sight, watching as a group of Armenian thugs who had recently moved into Gotham in numbers that  _screamed_ of ill intent, when he heard the flutter of a cape and saw red flicking out the corner of his eye. 

He looked as he always did: untouchable and infallible. It made Bruce rage inside.

"Batman," Superman greeted, tone wary but strong, as though he hoped to portray a confidence he didn't quite possess, particularly given how uncomfortable he looked on a Gotham rooftop. 

Bruce let the white lenses of his cowl pin Superman in place just long enough to see him squirm before he turned his gaze forward, casting it back out to the jungle of concrete monoliths that reached skywards. His city, ten inches underneath crime and suffering, was crying out before him, unapologetic in its harsh neon lighting and dangerous shadows. There were horns and sirens and coarse words floating up to him. People, scurrying around like ants - so small and insignificant but also so important. A blotch of paint on a canvas that helped in building a painting: each speck irreplaceable but unseen. And Bruce watched them all. He tore through the place like a whirlwind, breaking bones and spirits as quickly as he gave glimpses of hope and restored a seed of faith to those he saved. He watched as mothers worried for their children, friends with their arms linked and laughing loudly, and lovers entwining their hands and their hearts so thoroughly it was difficult to separate their shadows. Gotham was beautiful in its discourse and human in its desperation, and she was the only thing that kept him sane - especially now. Now when his soulmate stood beside him, suit brazen in its colour and eyes as blue as the clearest sky. Gotham stopped him from turning on his heel and beating down the alien until his bones shattered and ground themselves into dust. Gotham, and the people he would protect, kept his heart beating. A purpose and a reminder that while there was no one who would love his coldness or the scarred patchwork grotesqueness of his body, there was still a world where he could keep himself warm and breathing through the clawing ache. 

So he took a steadying breath, and watched his city. He saw two teenagers scurry home in the next street, occasionally glancing down alleys or to the rooftops, knowing full well that someone dangerous could appear from either. The teens, it seemed, had also gained Superman's attention. He frowned at them before glancing back to Bruce. 

"They have drugs," he said bluntly. 

Bruce snorted, a sound that was made rather disturbing by the voice modulator in his cowl, but didn't reply. Because seriously? Three joints? He wasn't going to put the fear of god into some kids for smoking a little bit of weed -  _he'd_ done worse when he was that age. Besides, he thought, if goody-two-shoes wanted to take it upon himself to educate them on the negative effects of drugs then he was more than welcome, although Bruce was sure the hero would be laughed off the street. Not least because they were teenage boys, walking home at three am on a Sunday morning, in _Gotham_. In a way Bruce kind of wanted to see Superman try something if only to amuse himself. 

There was a rustle of fabric beside him. "I'm Superman," Superman said and that did get Bruce to look around. His mouth almost twitched at the alien's words but said nothing and when it became clear he had no intention of responding, Superman continued. "I came to formally introduce myself. I've heard of you of course, and no doubt you've heard of me, but I thought it might be best for us to finally meet."

Only the steady rumbling of Gotham replied. 

"Your methods aren't good - particularly the human rights violations you seem to _enjoy_ partaking in. Even criminals have rights, Batman," Superman continued, disapproval lacing his tone, "but I understand that going against such individuals alone and without the assistance of powers is difficult." Bruce felt his jaw tighten and his teeth begin to grind. No doubt that Superman could see, and hear, his reaction, but still the man ploughed onward. "You see Batman, I also came here to say that despite your medieval methods, I'd like to work with you. The world needs people to stand up and defend those who can't defend themselves - and you do that. There aren't many people doing that in the world and I think keeping in touch and keeping each other in check is the best for all of us," he added. "There's a couple of others I've already spoken to. I can't tell you who they are, of course, but they're happy to be allies...to pull together if the world should need us to fight something we can't handle alone, and, well, with your limitations, I thought you might appreciate the help." 

The rage that swelled inside Bruce was unlike anything he had experienced before. Here, wrapped in the American flag and a sense of self-importance, was a creature who was cruel and harsh and as unyielding as steel - and he called Bruce medieval. A torrent of sharp, pricking sensations began to pool in his stomach before racing across his skin to lie over the now scarred flesh where his words had once lay, a reminder of how determined he was to owe  _nothing_ to this man. To be Batman, and Bruce, without apology and without judgement. Yet without knowing, Superman had torn his second identity down, trampling the good he had  _carved_ out of the bad with little more than a handful of words and a disapproving smile. But what hurt, what dug at the ragged lines of his soul, was that despite everything Superman had said about limitations and weakness and immorality - despite knowing that Batman would bloody his hands on the teeth of criminals and break his knuckles on the ribs of his ridiculously resilient and eccentric enemies - he would still give Batman a chance.  **Batman**. A legend who was whatever Gotham  _needed_ him to be: a murderer, a monster, a ghoul that lurked in shadows and punished wrong-doers. While Bruce Wayne, who played with women's hearts and hid the good work his company did beneath rumours of luck and delegation, wasn't worth the time. 

Superman would trust an 'immoral' vigilante but not his own soulmate.

Cruel indeed.   

"No."

Superman started abruptly, blinking several times in surprise. "I'm sorry, did you say  _no_?" Bruce kept quiet, watching the expressions race across the alien's face. "Look Batman, I know -"

" _ **No**_ ," Bruce hissed, striding forward with a sudden, desperate, near violent need to protect what was left of his sanity and his heart. "I don't work with freaks dressed like clowns," he snarled, letting his voice drop an octave and the modulator layer his tone with gritty anger. "And you can tell Flash, Wonder Woman, Aquaman, Cyborg and  _whoever_ you've dragged into your little club that I'm  _not_ _ **interested**_."

There was a moment of shock on Superman's face - clearly stunned at Bruce knowing  _exactly_ who he'd been referring to - but the billionaire didn't let himself savour it for long, instead shooting off a grappling gun and swinging away, knowing full well that even with all his tricks, Superman couldn't follow him in  _his_ city.

The Armenians would have to wait until another day. 

And when he finally stormed into the cave an hour later, still seething with anger, Alfred was waiting, face a picture of both curiosity and quiet disappointment. Bruce only snarled at his mentor in reply, because _no_ , he'd  _dealt_ with this already and nothing,  _nothing_ was going to see him and Superman buddy up.

"Master Bruce," Alfred began, turning in his chair with an authority that Bruce didn't particularly like, "while Superman's delivery and execution was poor, I do believe that aligning yourself with other heroes in the event of a serious threat would be a positive thing." He paused. "I certainly would like to see you have some support once in a while."

The black haired hero growled again, tossing his cowl across the cave and feeling some sense of satisfaction when it cracked into a computer screen. "I'll work with him when the sky _burns_ ," he spat in reply, slamming shut the door of the Batmobile and stalking into the armoury, throwing down his suit as he went and ignoring the numbness that was spreading across his skin.

Because _no_. 

But when the sky did burn one-hundred and forty-one days later, Alfred at least had the good grace not to say 'I told you so' as Bruce suited up alongside his soulmate.


	4. day three hundred and fifty one

The day started as most days did for Bruce: too early. He’d spent _hours_ ploughing his fists into the face of criminality, taking a fair few punches himself, before staggering home, delirious with sleep loss.

He’d finally managed to weed out the last of the Armenians and hand over the trafficked girls to Gordon before stumbling in at 4:40am and collapsing head-first onto his bed. Alfred, a little to smug for his liking, let himself in at 8:00am with breakfast, an ice-pack and the morning’s paper with reminders from Fox about the board meeting at 10am.

“Go away,” he muttered, black hair peeking up from underneath the covers and offering his best _Bat-Stare_ which, as per usual, had little affect on his mentor.

“Master Wayne,” he sighed, “do I have to fetch a pitcher of water?”

 _That_ got Bruce moving.

By 10:04am, however, he wished he’d been stronger to resist Alfred, whatever threats he might have given, and stayed in bed. His company was _annoying._ Fox, of course, did his job well, but some of the others were woefully incompetent and, well, Bruce had reached the point where he didn't _care_ if it was too suspicious if he fired the lot of them and replaced them with workers who had been there longer, knew the jobs better and, frankly, _deserved_ the promotion. His announcement, however, did _not_ go down well and, by 10:37am, he was done with the men losing their minds and screaming hysterically at him. Even Fox, who’d been casting both amused and proud looks across the table, was waning. All in all, six of the fourteen board members went – because Bruce was **boss** – and all of them left with curses, promises that he would ruin Wayne Enterprises and, of course, that the company would _beg_ them to come back. Bruce then tried in the airiest way possible to recommend those he had pegged for the jobs and even the most stoic of the board members fractured under the surprise – either at the constructive nature of his suggestion or the fact he even _knew_ the names of the people who worked for him. Bruce would be offended if he didn’t insist on calling Fox’s secretary Janet when he knew her name was Jane. After that it was paperwork, all in which Fox delighted in giving him, and a rather long, arduous pitch from an asshole from Lex Corp that he just didn’t want to hear, particularly when he could see clearly enough between the lines to know that Lex was planning something nefarious as a result of their collaboration.

By the time 3:00pm rolled around, he was _done,_ and more than ready to climb back into bed, or back into the Batsuit and punch some people in the face, daylight be damned.

Then the sky started to burn.

It began with a slow, deep rumble, that sounded like thunder, a few octaves down. It resonated in his bones, making him _shake_ inside and his skin tremble with his heartbeat. Bruce’s first reaction was to reach for his belt, only to realise that he might have to face this threat as Wayne, not Batman. Red streaks began to spread outward, into the clouds and Bruce could see hundreds of people in his building, and those nearby, pressed up against the windows, peering at the changing sky with equal parts trepidation and curiosity.

Bruce was moving before he realised it, pressing down on his speed dial until:

“Master Bruce,” Alfred said, “I trust you’ve looked outside.”

“I need the car, Alfred,” he began, overriding the elevator and sending it plummeting to the ground floor as quickly as he could.

“It’s the middle of the day,” he reminded him, a little stiffly, as Bruce eventually broke out of the elevator and into the lobby.

“I’d check out the window again Alfred,” Bruce continued, eyes pinned to the dark, round, object now breaking through the clouds. “Because this isn’t friendly.”

A streak of red-blue blurring across the skyline before Superman _thudded_ into the object and went careering off violently in another direction solidified his suspicion. Although the giant weapons cannon lowering from beneath the ship helped in confirming that whoever had decided to visit didn't  _come-in-peace_. There was a ghoulish green glow around the tip of the cannon before it shuddered and fired. A giant ball of  _something_ was spat from the end and hurtled across the sky towards a nearby skyscraper and Bruce watched in horror as it bit into concrete, glass and steel, and vaporised everything within a thirty metre radius. One moment the side of the building was there, the next it was gone - nothing more than dust and debris.

And so began the panic.

Screaming filled the air and people began to run in any direction they could, desperate to _get away_ but not sure where away was. There was a sudden loud, shuddering, heaving, **creaking** sound, and the building began to hinge at the destruction site. It tipped and suddenly the top fifteen floors careered forwards, glass raining on the street. 

There was a blur of red and suddenly people were appearing on the streets, crying and terrified but alive. 

 _Flash_. 

Bruce finally got himself moving, breaking into the run as the rest of the building, crashed down hard on the pavement. He didn't need superpowers to know that even with the Flash's speed, not everyone had made it out of the collapsing structure. But he knew more than anyone that not everyone could be saved, no matter how deserving of salvation they might be. He threw himself into an SUV that had been abandoned and floored it, getting as clear of people as he could. "Alfred," he called, swerving and glancing skywards to see the ship powering up again and Superman futilely throwing himself at what appeared to be defensive shields. " _Idiot_ ," Bruce hissed, because it seemed brute strength wasn't going to beat this enemy, which meant that strategy and trickery was the order of the day. And who was a better tactician than the World's Best Detective? 

"Sir," Alfred began, "take the next right into the parking structure. The cameras have been disabled," he continued as Bruce burst down the ramp and into the lot. It was relatively empty but he still wasted little time in slamming to a halt beside the Batmobile as it shifted out of stealth mode. He jumped inside, pulling off his suit and tie as he did, and dragged his armour over his body. "The Nightcrawler and the Batplane are enroute sir."

"Just the plane, Alfred," Bruce shot back as he pulled on the cowl and pushed hard on the accelerator. The car shot forward and he raced out and up onto the street, grateful that there were few civilians around to notice that Batman had appeared where Bruce Wayne had just disappeared into. A look up saw Superman trying to break through the shields, but all he'd succeeded in doing was getting the attention of those on board. The weapons array began to track the Man-Of-Steel as he flew about the sky and, when he ducked out of the way, the green blast took out another building. Bruce grit his teeth and swerved harshly, avoiding running people and driving hard for the UFO that was now drifting closer towards the city, dropping in altitude as it did. There was another worrying rumble but this time, rather than wait, Bruce flicked on his weapons system, took aim and fired. 

The missiles did little more than Superman had managed, confirming that there was indeed a defensive shield surrounding the ship, but it also accomplished another task. The ship's attention turned instantly to Bruce and he banked sharply, leading the craft away from populated areas. Superman seemed not to have gotten the memo, or understood his plan, but Batman sent up a series of brightly coloured flares to keep the aliens focused on him regardless of the attempts the Kryptonian was making to dent the force-field. A blast, this slightly smaller than before, took out a large chunk of the road beside him and made the Batmobile's wheels squeal as they attempted to drive on air. 

"Sir," Alfred chimed in, "the plane." Bruce nearly smiled beneath the cowl, switching the car to automatic control and opening the hatch, leaning slightly and firing a grappling hook that wrapped itself around the side of the plane and hoisted him into the air, just as a well aimed blast took out the car and several others nearby. He winched himself up and tumbled into the pilot's seat, banking abruptly to avoid a series of shots from the ship that fizzled out after meeting nothing to destroy. 

"Analyse that shield!" Bruce barked, putting some speed into the flight and silently rejoicing when Superman seemed to understand what Batman was trying to accomplish. He'd stopped throwing himself at the ship and instead begin flying just over the Batplane's left wing, leading the ship out over the harbour. 

"Running diagnostics now," returned the computer. 

Then:

"The shield is pure energy. There seems to be no clear way to penetrate it," the computer said. 

 _Shit_. 

Wait. 

"So we turn it off," Batman replied. Superman, who had clearly been eavesdropping, because  _of course he fucking had,_ turned sharply, eyes wide in surprise.  **Idiot**. "Tell Flash to generate as much lightening as he can, and have Aquaman throw as much of the harbour at it too. We'll short the systems," he demanded, glaring at Superman when he didn't immediately fly off and do as instructed. 

The glare helped. 

The end result wasn't elegant. In fact, it was almost ridiculous, with the Flash running around and around in circles like a dog chasing his tail while the dude in the green-yellow-orange  _monstrosity_ of a suit waved a pitchfork and sent a tidal wave towards the ship. The crackling water lashed against the force-field and, after the third attempt, shorted out. Bruce couldn't begin to express his gratitude that the systems worked similarly enough to their own for it to work. It took seconds after that for Mr Red-White-and-Blue to make a person-sized hole in their hull and drag out a handful of aliens screeching in loud, indignant tones. 

All in all, it had been a serious crisis averted with barely any casualties, and Bruce could  _hear_ Alfred's thoughts on that from down the end of the line. But still he had no intention of making such a thing permanent. Not even as he worked side by side with Flash and Wonder Woman, digging people out of rubble as they screamed themselves hoarse - Superman had taken it upon himself to become their spokesperson on the incident, letting government know that blowing up the harbour was not in their best interests. The incident had been short-lived pandemonium and it wasn't until darkness once again hung around Bruce's shoulders did he finally make his escape to Gotham. 

Gotham, however, seemed to have decided that alien invasion made for a nice time to take a day off, and was quieter than Bruce had ever seen her. It also meant that it took less than twenty minutes for Superman and his gang of multicoloured morons to find him. 

"Batman," the Kryptonian shouted, dropping out of the sky, Wonder Woman by his side. An orange blur and the Flash was there, quickly followed by Cyborg and Aquaman. Bruce didn't want to think about the shock one of his citizens might get were they to glance up to that particular rooftop. 

"Alien," Bruce shot back, enough gravel in his voice that he probably didn't need the modulator. A frown - more concern and offended than angry - before:

"If there was any indication that we need each other, need  _allies,_ Batman, then today was that day," the six-foot, blue-eyed  _destroyer of souls_ said. 

"Kal-El is right," Wonder Woman affirmed. "There are threats in this world we cannot conquer alone," she paused, pursing her lips in clear disapproval. "It would be arrogant to assume we can."

"I work alone," Bruce hissed, ignoring the way his stomach writhed at Wonder Woman addressing his soulmate with such casual intimacy - with a name that not even _Bruce_ knew.

"No offence Bats," Flash cut in, practically vibrating where he stood with unused energy, "but so do we all. We all work alone. But when we need to ya know, not work alone, then we can work together." He trailed off, clearly impressed with his logic, although that soured when the solid, white lenses of the cowl were pinned to his face. "Forget I said anything," he muttered. 

"We would only need your assistance in times of global crisis, Batman," Cyborg offered. "This is not a suggestion that any of us enter Gotham." Bruce almost smiled because Cyborg had just nailed fifty percent of the problem. He had enough trouble with ridiculously dressed lunatics in his city, he wasn't going to open the doors for more. But the other half still remained: and he was stood in glaring alien spandex less than five metres away. 

It was then, he had the thought.

Once again, Superman was being demanding of Bruce - making him reject an opportunity to gather information on a group of people who, should they desire it, could tear down civilisation. Batman would have accepted in a heartbeat, content to to work with them, understand them, gather information on their weaknesses and then use their strengths if and when required. But Batman was strategy and calm wrapped in logic. After all, it was Batman who had removed the words that had cause Bruce so much pain. It was Batman who had continued forward, happy not to reopen the wound. It was Bruce who kept picking at it; Bruce who allowed Superman to get underneath his skin and dictate his decisions, change his plans, let him exercise a hold over him as though his words were still written on Bruce's skin. There had to be a moment where Batman made Bruce let go. 

Maybe this was it. 

Superman was a potential threat. Batman should analyse that threat. 

"Stay out of Gotham," he ordered. "I'll contact you," he added, pulling out a communicator that not even Cyborg, with all his tricks, would be able to hack, and handed it to Wonder Woman. "Only if the world is ending." She nodded once, letting a smile ghost her features, clearly believing that Bruce had been convinced.

Perhaps they would be easier to neutralise than he thought should the time come. He snorted softly before dropping off the roof and out of sight. 

Days later, the papers stopped showing photos of the destruction left by the attempted alien invasion and instead began focusing on the group they now called the Justice League. They had profiles and photos and stories and the tale they wove about their origin - about the moment they became a team - was a far cry from reluctance and a dingy, Gotham rooftop. It leaked hope and pride and an overwhelming optimism that only someone without life experience could have. It practically glowed as it talked about heroes and keeping the world safe and the best possible future existing  _now._ Alfred informed him of the article with some amusement. 

Although, in fairness, how was Clark Kent of the Daily Planet supposed to know any of the **real** story?   


	5. day three hundred and ninety three

It took Bruce an embarrassingly long time to uncover that the journalist who had written the previous three stories about the newly christened Justice League was  _Superman_. In his defence, Bruce hadn't actually read the articles - although Alfred had. His mentor had mentioned a few details that seemed a little too on the nose for someone who wasn't there. A single search on google and:

"His name is Clark Kent," Bruce said to Alfred's retreating back. "He's a reporter for the Daily Planet." He shook his head in disbelief. "Alfred, Superman is _press.._. My soulmate is a fucking journalist."

Alfred paused, eyes narrowing slightly, ignoring the heat and profanity in the sentence. "I'm assuming that... _Clark._.. does not know the same truth about your duel identity, Master Bruce." There was almost disapproval in his tone, something that, a few months ago, would have made him seethe. Now he just felt like rolling his eyes. 

"No," Bruce replied, as though the notion was ridiculous.

"He is an investigative reporter," Alfred muttered, reading the screen before him that painted Superman's human achievements and job in stark, black-on-white, and letting something seep into his tone.

"He doesn't know - he's not that good an investigator."

"Who is in the face of the World's Best Detective?" Alfred replied, a little too snidely for it to be meant as a compliment.

"He doesn't know," Bruce parroted. "He'll never know," he swore, shaking his head. 

Alfred sighed quietly, irritation turning to something sad and disappointed. "Never is an awfully long time, Master Bruce. Especially as you are now teammates."

 ** _Teammates_**. 

They weren't. But, Bruce sighed, resolute as he watched his mentor walk away, they were. 

Although, while it had taken him far too long to work out that the six-foot, dark haired, blue-eyed moral justice was also the six-foot, dark haired, blue-eyed, glasses-wearing, farm-boy, it was only a few days after their official (unofficial) team-up (alien invasion prevention) that he had folders bursting with information on the other members. Their life, their names (and aliases), their blood-types, how they took their coffee, what side of the bed they slept on. If it was remotely personal, Bruce had obtained it. Well, Bruce, Batman, Matches Malone and a few others had obtained it.

Some of the identities of his companions had been difficult and, upon learning them, impressive. It wasn't everyday Bruce could say he knew that an Amazon Princess started her morning with a Matcha Tea Latte, or the King of Atlantis had been fined $120 five nights ago for speeding. On the other hand, while Wonder Woman and Aquaman gave Bruce pride in his investigative abilities, he felt like thumping his head against a desk with others. They, unfortunately, were  _embarrassingly_ easy. And by they, he meant The Flash. 

Anyone who hadn't worked out that Barry Allen was the Flash was, as far as Bruce was concerned, an _**idiot**_. An  **idiot.** Between the frequent 'coincidences' (mainly the Flash disappearing and Barry reappearing), his incredibly successful conviction rate - often with evidence that seemed to be gathered by extra human means - and the volume of CCTV footage that saw Barry Allen moving at the speed of sound or creating lightening, it was obvious. Bruce was just grateful that Barry seemed to attract the villains who were too busy posturing or trying to pull off unnecessarily complicated crimes to actually uncover his identity. God help the kid if the Joker turned his gaze to Central City. It'd be a bloodbath.

He'd made a snide suggestion to the scientist a week previously, mere days after completing the set and having names for _all_ of them.

They'd once again been forced to work together after Lex Luthor primed a nuclear warhead, encased it in lead and hid it somewhere on the East Coast - something about land and property and controlling the world (Bruce tended to tune out motives because they were often too hair-brained and crazy to follow). If the world weren't in jeopardy, he would, however, have taken a fair few minutes to enjoy the panicked, _vulnerable_ , look on Superman's - on  _Clark's_ \- face when realising he couldn't just fly about and look at things intensely to solve the problem. A solution, it seemed, that was pretty much Superman's _thing_ (other than rambling lectures about ethics, morality and the basic  **good** people had in their hearts). The Kryptonian had blushed a dark, almost violent crimson when he'd realised, before murmuring a distressed " _I can't help_ " to Wonder Woman out of the corner of his mouth.

The others _could_ help though and, with a few glares and sniping from Bruce (not to mention a brilliant tactical plan, of course) the crisis was averted. It was after the warhead had been deposited back into the hands of the government it had been stolen from (not that Bruce really considered that  _safe_ ), that Bruce had pinned Flash with a  **look.**

It had been only an offhand comment, but the Flash had gone far too still and what was visible beneath the cowl paled instantly. 

"Y-you know my n-n-name?" he'd stuttered, sounding every inch the boy he practically was. 

"As I said," Batman replied, deadpan and uncaring of the stress that was now driving Barry to vibrate through the floor. "You need to be more proactive with concealing your identity."

"Oh my god," Barry breathed, voice quiet and soft and a touch desperate. "Oh my **_god_**."

"Batman," Wonder Woman chided, taking pity on the boy.

"Diana," he replied, finding some internal amusement at watching her eyebrow twitch - a telltale sign she was surprised but still able to keep a firm hold on her emotions. "I am well versed on all your identities..." He paused, noting the general, albeit muted, panic. Bruce sighed.  "Considering you have shared your names between yourselves, I don't understand why my knowing is a worry."

"Because you don't like us!" Barry screeched, voice jumping several octaves as his face began to purple and his legs began to flit in and out of visibility. 

Bruce nearly rolled his eyes. "I have no intention of blackmailing you, Flash, but I wouldn't have agreed to this _team_ ," he scowled, the word sitting bitter on his tongue, "without knowing who you were."

"You've known all this time?" Diana asked, eyes narrow. 

"Yes," Bruce lied, voice deceivingly flat. He could hear Alfred's rebuking tut in his mind but focused on keeping his heart-rate steady, save Mr Nosey tilted his ear in Bruce's direction and took a listen to his heart. The regulator that usually projected a steady sound to prevent Superman from hearing his heart had been broken in the fight. _Fucking Luthor_. At least the lead-lined cowl held strong - he had no intention of letting Captain X-Ray have a peak at his face in a moment of curiosity. 

"This is a serious breach of trust, Batman," Superman chimed in and Bruce willed himself not to rage at the words. Instead he turned to the hero. 

"Was this ever about trust?" he asked bluntly, aware that everyone there knew the answer before adding: "And your idealism over this group is beginning to wear thin on both myself and your readers, Kent." 

A curse, wide eyes and Barry almost in tears had seen the quick disbanding of their little gathering after _that_ particular comment, with Wonder Woman taking it upon herself to soothe Barry and Clark through their separate identity crises. Batman had turned to go, although not before Arthur clapped him on the shoulder with a grin that spoke volumes as to his humour at the situation and said: "You're a funny man, Batman, but I like Flash. Let's try not to let him get that colour again."

Bruce hadn't heard from them since.

It had been quiet until that morning. 

There was no disaster and Bruce had taken the day to be proactive: actually attending meetings and doing paperwork, ignoring the quiet disbelief from his staff at seeing _Brucie Wayne_ actually  **working**. Lucius helped though, of course, although their conversations did tend to stray a little out of W.E. and into the developments he had managed to make in his nightly activities. They were hip deep in forms and musing on the best way to launch a covert space station into orbit discretely when the communicator beeped, signalling he'd been summoned for a meeting.

A meeting, apparently, that was occurring instantly.

He did roll his eyes then, and although Lucius smirked and gestured he go, Bruce shook his head. He made sure the modulator was functioning before connecting to Diana. 

" _Batman_ ," she greeted. " _I trust you saw the summons_."

"I am  _unavailable_ ," he said, eyes looking out the window and  _beyond_. 

" _This is important Batman_ ," Diana continued, voice a little too off for it to be nothing. " _We need you_."

Bruce scowled at the admission. How had these 'heroes' managed without him thus far if they  _needed_ him as often as they proclaimed to he wondered? "Why?" There was a pause. "This is a secure connection."

" _Kal has found another possible member for the league,_ " Diana explained. 

Of. Course. He. Had. Bruce bit back a snarl. Why did he - 

" _You'll join us, Batman?_ " Diana was saying. 

"Where?" Bruce snapped, annoyance bleeding into his tone, even with the modulator. Diana must have heard it because she paused a little too long before offering:

" _There's an abandoned building complex in Metropolis_ ," she offered.  _"I'll send the address._ " With that she signed off. 

"Skulking around abandoned buildings," Bruce scowled, tossing down the communicator with disgust. "If this is going to work, we need a base working Fox. I can't swan in and out of Metropolis like this." Lucius didn't say a word, only smiled a little too smugly and for a moment, Bruce wondered just how much time the man had been spending with Alfred because they looked awfully similar in that moment. 

They parted ways, Bruce signalling for the Batplane, cloaked in enough tech that even Superman would say it was stealthy, to meet him on the roof. A quick change and the benefit of dying light glinting over his city and Bruce was airborne, powering his way to the address Diana had given him and cursing, with everything he had, that his idiot Soulmate had not led them into a trap of some sorts. 

In a way, Bruce wished it  _had_ been a trap. 

The hero's name was Green Lantern and he had apparently run into Kent on the streets of Metropolis several days earlier and, after a heart to heart and some alien on alien fighting, had decided that he would be best joining their fresh-faced team. 

Bruce was not impressed. Especially as he had begun by saying:

"Hey everyone, I'm Hal," like the meeting was an icebreaker the first day of college. Batman was grinding his teeth so loudly that even Flash had began to cast worrying glances in his direction - which was impressive given that he had taken to Jordan as though they had been friends since birth. Their meeting deteriorated even further when, in an indignant sort of way, Hal had said: "WAIT! He's only  _human_?" pointing at Bruce as though  _he_ were the strangest one among them. It was then, interestingly, that Curry stepped in. 

"Hey, kid," he began, gesturing a little too forcefully with his trident if his smile was to be believed, "don't piss off the Bat."

"It's not - I mean - it's just," the Lantern spluttered, looking to Superman for help. Clark however, was clearly doing his best not to laugh at the man's expense, before shooting a look at Batman like they had just shared a joke. Bruce did not want to think about the Man-Of-Steel's apparent belief that they were going to be  _friends_. 

"I think you'll be a good addition to the team, Lantern," Diana began. 

"If you can fight, of course," Victor added with a smile, tilting his head to the left. "If you can then, well, you got my vote."

"Oh, cool, we're voting? I get a vote!" Barry grinned. "Hell yeah," he laughed, before: "what about you Big Blue?"

"I wouldn't have suggested it otherwise, Barry," Clark grinned. 

They turned to Arthur. "Hey," he shrugged, "I'm down. We could use all the help we could get I think."

It was then they swivelled their gaze to Bruce. Batman was, of course, seething. Angry at their carelessness; the willingness to throw away their identities like they were nothing, giving away trust like it came in droves and there was a burning sensation in his chest at the way they were all so willing to bring new people into the fold. 

"I believe I've been outvoted," he offered instead. Flash, clearly taking this as a yes, whooped and high-fived Lantern, who had narrowed his eyes at the answer.

"What?" he smirked with all the confidence of a man who regularly got what he wanted. Bruce knew because he regularly wore such an expression. "Aren't you going to tell me who you are?" 

There was a weighted silence before Bruce replied: "I'm Batman," before turning on his heel and striding away, leaving Flash to add: 

"And that's him being  _polite_." 


	6. day four hundred and eighty nine

It was only several weeks after Bruce had finally finished _creating_ the Justice League that he realised that Superman thought they were friends. 

It hadn't been easy - not that much was anymore, Bruce thought - and it had drained more of his emotional and mental strength than he'd anticipated. The process of finding, stocking and securing a place that was not only accessible and loaded with enough tech to meet all of their potential needs, but also that appeared, to the outside eye, completely ordinary had been difficult. Not to mention the strategy that had gone into trying to ensure their Watchtower (Superman's nickname, not his) was well placed as not to reveal themselves (well, Bruce, because everyone else seemed to believe that sharing was _caring_ ) nor to draw public attention to their civilian identities. All in all, the place had occupied Bruce's 'to-do' list for a while and, much to Alfred's amusement, he had done it **_well_**. 

"There's no point putting in  _some_ effort, Alfred," Bruce had scoffed, ignoring the racing beat of his heart as a wave emotion crawled its way north into his throat that was tangy with the fear of someone knowing he gave a shit. But he did - not least because the League worked. While yes, their rag-tag group was a drain upon his resources and yet another thing to hide amongst the Wayne financials - not to mention adding difficultly in maintaining his identity among so many powered individuals - it had saved the world a further three times since he'd taken it upon himself to fashion them a hang-out. There had been the incident with a thing they'd later called a Parademon, another incident with Luthor this time involving Kryptonite (which Bruce most definitely whisked away for himself because  _contingencies_ ) and a magic portal (which he left to the alien and the alien cop to deal with because  _no_ ) and finally some hypnotic gas that had caused mass panic across the globe. That had been worse than the previous two incidents combined. It had taken all of them, in the end, to stop the world turning to shit and Bruce knew, deep down, that the Justice League could be a good thing. A  _really_ good thing. 

In the end, Watchtower (" _That's such a cool name -" "Shut **up** Flash"_) was ready three days before Clark first used his one-hundred watt smile on Bruce. He'd been steadily drawing up schematics, planning meticulously in the event that one of the League decided to take a short cut into 'Villian-hood' (because Bruce was not letting any of the super-coloured, super-powered  _people_ off without some sort of repercussion in place). The protocols were a little harsh (and that was _him_ saying it) and, well, if anyone else where to know about his plans, they might even say the whole thing was designed to see them dead rather than just incapacitated... but Bruce liked to be  _prepared._ He was halfway through the counter-measures for Flash - a speed sensitive device that would knock him out either through exhaustion or one hell of bang - when Clark sidled up beside him and struck up a conversation. He peppered his tale of Kansas and Lois and ' _the paper_ ' with a smile that, if Bruce weren't seated, would have taken out his knees.  

The smile's appearance didn't stop there. Suddenly, it was everywhere. It was in the morning greeting, the evening goodnight, the lunchtime roll of the eyes with the " _I swear I see more of you now B than my own mother!"_. 

And that was another thing:  ** _B_**. 

Bruce wasn't a fool. He knew that, regardless of his opinions (and reservations and internalised fear and hatred and a hundred other things) of Superman, if they were to successfully save the world together then they had to at least cultivate a professional relationship.

It started simply: with Superman trying a little _too hard_ with his chirpiness and his simple, but polite civilities. Eventually though, Clark got impatient. It quickly became clear to Bruce that Clark Kent just wasn't used to someone not liking him, or wanting to engage with him - either that or he was more of a stereotype for southern hospitality than Bruce gave him credit for. It was a random Wednesday when Clark sat down with a humph and proceeded to tell Bruce his life story which saw the Man-Of-Steel talk for two and a half hours flat. The Dark Knight contributed small, half sentences where appropriate, but was otherwise a little too shocked on just how to respond. Bruce had believed that was it and that, maybe, he'd managed to keep both his heart and his secret secure even in the face of their now apparently regular team-ups. But it wasn't, because Clark was, well,  _Clark._

Somehow, Clark greeting for him had morphed from a nod and a "Batman" into: "Hey B," accompanied by the biggest, sunniest smile that would make even Kansas charm feel cold. He started saving Bruce a portion of noodles when he was late to their weekly meetings, or Clark made sure Barry didn't go near the Bat when the Speedster was feeling particularly excitable and most likely to really piss Bruce off. Or it was making sure the billionaire was getting enough sleep after news reports had painted out Gotham's series of nightly attacks by Penguin or Riddler or Two-Face or all of them, because sometimes they just _had_ to team up too. It was tilting his head just so when he knew Bruce was lying, even with the defence of the modulator, but having enough respect not to call him out on it in front of the others, instead waiting until they were alone and saying: "Come on B, it's **me",** like that _meant_ something. It was little things that, in another life, would have made Bruce feel loved and human and turned his scared, scarred heart to goo. They grated on him a little when the burnt skin on his side _itched_ , but, he quickly realised that was just the way Clark was. 

He'd make sure the fridge was stocked with enough ice cream so Barry could refuel on all the sugar he needed after a fight while the rest of them waited patiently for food. It was offering Diana tickets to the theatre when he'd been given them for free by the Planet and knew she had missed out. It was pressuring politicians into advocating for better fishing practices and an end to whale hunting when Arthur, on one particularly memorable occasion, came into Watchtower with tears in his eyes, blubbering about a dying whale and her calf. It was engaging Victor in football talk when the man became convinced he was more machine than human. It was humouring Hal as he tested the strength of his will by trying to create constructs that Clark couldn't break or lift or laser with his red-beam-eye-things ( _Clark was **such** an  **alien**_ ). It was dozens of little, random acts of kindness that made Clark...  _Clark._ A year ago, Bruce would have hated to be witness to such expressions of love - partly because he'd been so devastated by a lack of it - but now, there was a familiar ache in his chest that while unpleasant, was not painful any more. 

He had finally, Bruce realised, reached acceptance. His soulmate was, he thought, a generally nice person... well, to every one but Bruce Wayne it seemed.

Watchtower had been operational for a few weeks when Bruce strode into the mess to a particularly loud and obnoxious shout of: " **NO** **WAY**!?" 

It was Hal (because of course it was) and Bruce glanced over, curious, only to see he, Diana and Clark huddled around one of the smaller tables, picking through a considerably tall pile of sandwiches that told Batman that Flash was also around somewhere. 

"Hal," Diana chided, offering Bruce a tight smile in greeting as he strode closer, before turning back to Clark who looked  _miserable._

Bruce cocked his head just enough to ask:  _what the hell is wrong with you?_

Clark shrugged, sighed heavily and dropped his gaze to his hands, which were wringing nervously. 

"Aw, don't do that silent talk shit," Hal moaned glancing between the two, hands dragging through his hair and green ring catching on the light, before fixing his eyes on Batman. "Supes is all upset because _Lois_ is upset with him."

Bruce kept his face impassive but couldn't help but let a ripple of surprise shoot through him. It wasn't the first time he'd heard the name Lois Lane. He knew the woman was Clark's girlfriend but they hadn't really spoken much about her (one of the only topics actually). In Bruce's defence, he was accepting, not dead, and hearing Clark talk so lovingly about someone who wasn't him caused an instinctive revulsion to roll through his body no matter how hard he tried and after a couple of times, Clark had come to the conclusion that Bruce didn't want to talk about civilians who knew the secret identities of superheroes (Bruce let him believe that, of course). Clark hadn't brought her up again and immediately seemed nervous at Hal mentioning her in Bruce's company now. 

"I'm sure B doesn't want to hear about this," Clark began, something vulnerable in his voice that he was desperately trying to hide with humour, but failing miserably.

"Maybe he has an idea!" a voice shouted from the side as Flash zipped into the room in a blur of red-yellow light and a crackle of lightning. "I mean, it's **_Batman_** , he always has ideas."

"Barry," Clark grimaced before sighing heavily, knowing that between the two of them, there was no chance of winning the ensuing debate. He took in a long inhale and nervously met the white-coloured lenses of Batman's cowl. "Lois found out about my Soulmate," he confessed, quiet. "She's not happy."

Bruce's heart _**stalled.**_

He did everything in his power to keep himself rooted to the spot. Not trusting his voice, he made the smallest movement with his head which Clark (god bless him) interpreted as a silent, carry on.

The black-haired man sighed again. "At first she wasn't happy that I'd met them but not done anything about it," he began, "she's quite traditional like that." Another sigh. "I mean, we knew that we didn't belong to each other - but I'm  _me_ , I didn't think I've ever meet them! I mean, for years I figured they must have been Kryptonian and died with the destruction of my planet! And Lois, her Soulmate died as a child - they were childhood best friends, you know - so we figured that it didn't matter. But, I suppose it does in the end..." Clark sounded so despondent, voice rolling through more emotions than Bruce knew existed. He shook his head a little, as though to clear his mind of the thoughts buzzing inside his skull. "Then, when she found out I knew who it was, of course she demanded to know... s-s-so, so, so I t-told her..." His voice was hitching now, words spluttered in one large jumbled mess and Bruce wanted to  _scream_. "And now she's angry." Diana patted him on the back soothingly. 

"Who is it?" Flash asked, leaning forwards, powering over the intense silence as though it wasn't even there. 

It was Hall who answered. He grinned, dropping his voice low as though the answer were some sort of conspiracy, leaned in and said: "Bruce  _ **Wayne**_."

Flash's eyes went big. "Bruce WAYNE?!" he echoed, choking on his sandwich. "You're kidding?"

"No," Superman replied, head now cradled in his hands and clearly determined to avoid all eye contact.

"Sucks to be you," Flash muttered, which made Hal laugh and Diana shoot an unimpressed glare at the pair of them. 

"It could be worse," Victor cut in, appearing at the doorway and completely unashamed in having eavesdropped. "Despite his appearance, Wayne is a good businessman," he continued, "his company is one of the most influential internationals in the world and apparently Bruce does a fair amount of heavy lifting behind closed doors." 

Batman felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise at the assessment but held his tongue. 

"How did -" Superman began, looking up. 

"I looked into him while you were talking," Victor confessed, "I can -"

"No." Clark's tone was bordering on hostile and, after a second he realised it and softened. "I'm sorry, thank you Victor, but please, uh, don't... uh research Bruce Wayne any more."

A pause. "No problem Clark."

"Huh," Hal muttered. "And here's me thinking his head is filled completely with air."

"Well," Victor added, lips curling upwards, "I did say  _apparently."_ The group let those soft, half-amused chuckles that eased the heaviness that had settled over them just enough to make it comfortable. 

"Gotham's Prince, Supes?" Barry said again, shaking his head before turning to Batman as though remembering he was still there. "What no opinion Bats? You're from Gotham, right? What'ta you think of Gotham's Favourite Son?"  

Bruce kept his expression completely neutral and ignored the clamouring, aching part inside himself that screamed at the way they laughed in the face of his pain. Superman - _Clark_ \- had done something that was considered unforgivable in many societies and they had all, immediately, sided with him rather than Bruce, who had been dismissed without a thought. But, Batman thought, taking in a steady, measured breath, he had worked hard for such dismissal. "I don't waste my time on things as superfluous as Bruce Wayne, Flash."

They chuckled again but Superman tossed him a small smile. "Come on B," he said softly, eyes kind, "no opinion? Aren't you going to mock the world's most ridiculous pairing? Surely that big brain of yours can come up with something."

"You seem to be doing perfectly fine with that by yourself," Batman replied, voice cold.

Superman rolled his eyes, clearly taking the response as 'Batman being Batman' before he seemed to shrink in on himself again. "I honestly don't know what to do, about Lois, I mean. It's not - I mean... well,  _I love her_ and she loves me but she just - she's, she's so... so angry, and well, I just think - she can't, she -"

"Can't stand the thought of knowing the person she thought was hers belongs to someone else?" The words were out of Bruce's mouth before he realised his mouth had opened. Suddenly all eyes were on him. There was some surprise and disbelief, but the gratitude on Clark's face seemed to blur everything else.

"Exactly!" he breathed, nodding. "Yes. And someone she knows, too. Some's who's -"

"Real," Batman replied, reigning himself (and his heart-rate) in.

"Yes. Yes," Superman nodded. "I mean, after I told her, she did say that she understands why, uh, why I never - never  _did_ anything," he spluttered, blush extending down his neck. "I mean, it's Bruce  _Wayne_. A guy who bedded half of Gotham, blows off work and jets out to look at islands to buy, we're not exactly interested in the same things... or have, you know, the same, ah, moral character," he continued, voice twisting like Bruce was something unpleasant he'd just stepped in. "But, he's still..."

"Out there. Existing." Batman watched Superman nod again before shaking his head and sighing.

"I mean, she can't - I think... It's just he's real and alive and, apparently, he's supposed to be -"

"Yours," Bruce finished.

Bright blue eyes on him, a sad smile, another sigh and then: 

"What do I do?" he asked, pinning all the weight of his gaze on Bruce as though he held the answer to everything. 

"What can you do?" Bruce responded, letting a hint of his own feelings seep into the words. "Short of killing Wayne, you'll never be rid of him, nor of the problem of having a Soulmate," he ignored the looks of  _horror_ at his blunt dismissal of a system that most of them seemed to hold dear (and the indignant " _It's not a problem, Batman_ " from Diana) and ploughed on, "and you'll never  _not_ be Soulmates, no matter what you do. You could get rid of the words, you could run, you could love someone else, but it's not going to change the fact the universe bound you together. So you either do nothing and let Lane sort out her insecurities by herself or you end the relationship."

The rest of the League seemed startled that he was even speaking, let alone offering advice (and if he was honest with himself, Bruce was a little shocked too) but Clark was soaking up every word he said, face shifting through emotion after emotion the longer Bruce spoke. Not to mention it felt a little amusing to offer his Soulmate advice about how to get past him. 

"Thank you B," he murmured, sincerity bleeding through every pore. 

Batman didn't reply, only nodded sharply in acknowledgement before turning to leave.

It was Hal's voice who stopped him. "What did you do about yours?" he asked. Bruce looked back. "Your Soulmate," Hal continued, drawing everyone's attention. He smirked at the cold stare he received. "You can't talk like that and not have experience."

His lips twisted into a thin, dangerous line. "Batman doesn't have a Soulmate," he spat, a voice like ice. 

Hal only laughed. "But ya ain't just Batman, Spooks," he snorted. 

There was only silence, before:

"No," he admitted. "But they don't have a Soulmate either." He let the expression dip just enough into cruel and cold that Barry shivered in fear before offering: "I made sure of that," then he turned on his heel and strode away, black cape sweeping out behind him like the skin of a trailing grim reaper.  


	7. day five hundred and twenty eight

The fall-out from the Clark-Lois break-up poisoned _everything_. 

Bruce, in all honesty, wasn't even aware of the couple separating until Lois Lane poured a glass of 1995 Krug Clos d’Ambonnay over him, which, frankly, he was surprised she'd even managed to get any of given the $4000 price tag and the bartender with a seriously terminal case of looking down his nose at anyone without 18 carat diamond rings and a string of pearls around their neck.

She'd been covering the latest Wayne Enterprises gala - a charity auction where _Brucie's_ rich friends all bought things they didn't need for prices they didn't even blink at despite the volume of zeros, all so they could say they saved Gotham's orphanages and helped build a homeless shelter.  _Brucie_ had already had a few too many, polishing off a bottle of Champagne all on his own - although the large ficus in the corner drank more than he did (Bruce would feel a little guilty about watering house plants with alcohol if his cover wasn't so ridiculously reliant on him looking raging drunk every other day) - when he stumbled into the side of a red-dress filled with Lois Lane. She'd turned, annoyed, before her face took on an expression Bruce had seen only a handful of times before... and they all usually ended in him getting shot, stabbed or, in Ivy's case, a face full of sex-murder-lust-dust.

Lois had been no exception.

Eyes wide and flaming, she'd nearly snarled before shoving him back and upturning her glass in one smooth movement. The action left him dripping wet, sticky and, once the Champagne seeped through his clothes and into the open cuts on his back from some axe wielding maniacs belonging to the Joker, in horrible, stinging pain. She'd shoved him again, keeping her palm raised, clearly torn between slapping him or just walking away. Luckily for Bruce's cheek, the moral high-ground won out and she stormed off, hair whipping him in the face as she left. The billionaire made sure to catch someone's eye, smirk a little too leerily for the look to be comfortable, while rolling his eyes and exclaiming in his airiest voice: " _Women_!"

The press ate it up - after all, while it wasn't the first time he'd showered in someone's drink, Lois was a little different from the usual heiresses who performed such dramas. By the time Bruce had made his escape, peeling the suit off his limbs in disgust (leaving it crumpled in one horrible, sticky pile for Alfred to deal with) and dragged kevlar on in its place, he was trending on Twitter and a newspaper headline " _Wayne Gets Wet_ " complete with pictures and, much to his horror, video, had garnered several hundred comments already. All in all, the world relished in Brucie getting a taste of his own medicine, but ultimately saw nothing past the event other than Lois was a jilted lover finally regaining her power.

Bruce, of course, knew differently. 

It was several hours - nearing the end of his patrol that had, luckily, let him kick some people in the face enough that he'd burnt off the annoyance at Lane - that his visitor appeared, traditionally wrapped in red-white-and-blue. It was a flutter of red, a soft sigh and then, in a small voice:

"I broke up with Lois."

Bruce sighed quietly but didn't turn. He knew he should tell Clark that this was  _still_ his city and, heartbreak or not, the Kryptonian wasn't exactly _welcome_ in Gotham, but a single glance at the sorry sight that was the most powerful person on earth and he realised that it wasn't worth it. Not tonight at least.

"I know." Batman offered instead, a phantom pain dancing across his back at the words. At Clark's surprised glance, he continued. "Lois Lane decided that Bruce Wayne's shirt was missing a glass of champagne tonight. She made quite the spectacle." Clark winced, face twisting. 

"Ah."

There was a long, heavy silence that followed and Bruce wasn't really sure how to fill it.

"Go home, Kal," he offered, ignoring the expression that flittered across Clark's face at his casual use of his Kryptonian name. 

"Home? But L-Lois is -"

"Go _**home**_ ," he parroted, trying not to let his eyes roll in annoyance. "Go home, cry and let your mother bake you pie. She'll want to look after you and you'll be of no use until you've dealt with this Lane...situation," he said. "I'm sure the League will keep an eye on Metropolis."

There was a pause, where Clark's gaze went soft, clearly reading between the lines. "Thanks B," he murmured before glancing out over at the Gotham skyline. "Be safe."

"Goodbye Kal," Batman returned, modulator not hiding the begrudging affection, much to his chagrin. Clark must have heard it too because he grinned brightly before launching into the night sky, leaving Bruce alone once more. 

The following two weeks were less than fun.

It started with a less than friendly piece on some of Wayne Enterprises ventures into GM crops - citing several sources that were a little sketchy and giving a few too many words to the critics of GM foods simply to help bolster the critique of the company (and of Bruce). It escalated into an article highlighting the shady connections that W.E. had coveted in the past when they focused on military contracts to bring in the big money. It ended (at least for the moment) with a particularly scathing article about Bruce himself which managed to tank not only his stock price for four days but also a deal that had taken five months to structure and cost $1.6bn. He'd been angry enough about the latter - because building wind-farms, installing solar-panels and generating enough clean energy to power the eastern seaboard was pretty fucking important - to exert his authority. After review, the Planet was forced to print a retraction and Lane was put on suspension for a week (not that such a thing stopped her from writing, of course) and he (with a lot of Lucius' help) salvaged the deal.

It was, however, made almost worth it when Clark returned. Despite his apparent dislike of Bruce, watching his ex-girlfriend target his soulmate repeatedly in the media to the point of nearly ruining something designed to help save the Earth for just a little bit longer was apparently too far. The hissing rebukes that Clark had given Lois turned her an unflattering shade of chilli red and led to a imposed wall of silence that had, according to his inside sources (and Clark, who now saw Bruce as his confidant) made working in the office almost unbearable. It had reached a point where Bruce was compiling contingency plans should Lois ever decide that the world needed to know just who donned the cape. While he wasn't one to brag, the sheer scale and thoroughness of Lois smear campaign would not only disregard Clark as a suspect for being Superman (until the end of time) but also, quite possibly, end Lane's career in journalism. 

Clark however, filled with optimism despite the anger oozing from his former flame, was certain that Lois wouldn't risk the Superman identity just to get back at him. "She's mad, but she believes in what I'm trying to do,' he told Bruce one evening in Watchtower over a plate of dirty fries five days after returning from his self-imposed solitude. Bruce, for once, let Clark call the shots and did nothing about Lane at all. 

But while he had been preoccupied by the drama of the Kent-Lane non-relationship, he had missed the development in the Clark-Batman friendship. He wasn't sure how he missed it - particularly as he was the  _world's greatest detective_ but he had. At first he tried to deny its existence - ignoring the tell tale signs that, if he were honest, had been creeping in weeks before he and Lane finally parted ways - then he just tried to pretend that it meant anything other than it did. In the end, it was difficult to keep swallowing down the truth:

Clark  _liked_ Batman. 

It was quiet - the kind of like that lingered on the edges and turned people a delicate shade of pink. It was young and new enough that Clark himself wasn't quite sure what to do about it, but it was there. It was there in the lingering stares directed his way, in the hushed conversations that Superman seemed determined to draw Bruce into about little things or big things or even remarking on the weather. It was even in the way the alien pulled his bottom lip in with his teeth and worried it a little before offering a half smile and returning his attention back to what it was supposed to be on rather than watching the side of Bruce's head. The hours they had spent together previously now felt stolen and intimate, as though the world was hitting pause just so they could share their days. Well, Clark shared and Bruce offered meaningless information or Batman styled reports on the activities of Gotham's criminal underbelly, but the Man-of-Steel coveted the words as though they described Bruce's inner thoughts and dreams.

It wasn't long before Diana noticed and then it became impossible for Bruce to pretend it was all in his head. 

In the end, the situation found itself thrust into the limelight a little over a month after the Clark-Lane blow-out.

Hal had informed them a few days previously of another Green Lantern who had been more than a little abusive of his power and had subsequently banished him to an anti-matter universe (and wasn't _**that**_ the mother of all mind-fucks), but he was back with a yellow ring and apparently very angry at Jordan... not that Bruce could imagine why. While Hal felt confident that he (with some help) could defeat Sinestro, he was worried about the Weaponers who could do serious damage to the people of Earth while he was busy fighting the former Lantern.

And so the Justice League was called into action once more. 

The battle had been long and even the metahumans were flagging, constantly clearing the path of civilians and battling what seemed like an endless parade of Weaponers. Bruce didn't remember too much of the actual battle, not least as strategy had long since gone and it was only instinct and adrenaline pushing him forward. He did remember being calf deep in thick black mud that was trying desperately to drag him into the bowels of the Earth. He remembered an aching, wheezing burn in his chest where the several broken ribs dug cruelly into any organ they could reach. He remembered his gloves being slick with the blood of the alien engineers or whatever Hal had told them they were. His belt was practically empty, most of his tech was fried and his bones felt as though they'd been filled with molten lead. Every step felt like dragging a tractor behind him and every thud from their swords or blow from their shields threatened to shatter his bones. Even Alfred had gone quiet in his ear, sensing that any distraction, no matter how small, could see him lay sprawled on the dirt, blood bubbling up through his torn lips and skin splitting open around a blade.

In the end it was something small. Hal, giving a cry of victory as Sinestro went crashing to the ground, yellow ring hurtling off his finger, drew his attention just long enough for a Weaponer to throw a particularly well aimed strike at the back of his head, right where the cowl's protection waned. Instantly, his vision turned black and Bruce pitched forward, out before he hit the ground. 

He woke slowly, blinking into awareness the way he did after a particularly nasty hangover had taken his brain and played. Immediately his hands went to his face, finding relief in the familiar feel of the cowl beneath his fingertips. A breath and he was glancing over at Diana, dressed in civilian clothes and looking distinctly unimpressed. 

"We wanted to check you for internal injuries, but your suit is lined with lead," she began, "and so we considered taking the suit off. Clark disagreed - told us you were entitled to your privacy - but eventually worry won out after you didn't wake." A pause. "You boobytrapped your suit."

A long, heavy silence. 

"Of course," he rasped, words like needles on his tongue. 

Diana scowled. "We don't know how badly you're injured," she said, before softening. "You took quite a blow Batman.'

Bruce sat slowly, glancing around and noting, for the first time, that he was in the Watchtower infirmary. "Occupational hazard," he offered when realising the Amazonian was still waiting for a response. 

"I know, but you are only human, Batman. You can't do this forever. This will destroy you," she said before her voice dropped and she continued, the words almost as an after thought that, had Bruce been anyone else, he would have missed. "Not to mention it would destroy Clark."

Rage. 

Blinding rage. 

He'd been desperate to avoid the thought, the horrible, ironic, cruel thought, that his Soulmate liked him - wanted to love him - and suddenly there was nowhere to hide. Diana's words, no doubt seemingly small to her, felt like a nuke through his chest. 

"Excuse me," Bruce bit out, voice laced with more ice than both poles combined. 

Diana blinked, eyes widening before she softened. "Oh Batman," she began, "surely you know his affection for you. If you're not going to look out for yourself for you, then at least do it for Kal. He was so worried, you know. He tore through what was left of the Weaponers when you went down like they were nothing."

Silence. 

War drums took up residence in his ears and his mouth filled with the bitter, all too familiar taste of metal and salt. If he weren't in company and incandescent with rage, he'd no doubt be devolving into a panic attack. 

"For. Kal." he finally spat, lurching to his feet, proud that he didn't stagger even with the radiating pain becoming more and more apparent. 

Diana felt wrong footed, that much was clear, but rather than back-pedal as most would have done, she doubled down, furrowing her brows and murmuring: "It's not exactly fair on him, Batman." 

"Fair?" Bruce shot back, barely keeping the rage in his voice in check. "I will not be held accountable, nor check my actions, because the boy scout has discovered  _puppy love_ ," he snarled, storming from the room and down the corridor. "Call me when this returns to being a League, and not an attempt to see me and Superman sitting around a camp-fire talking about feelings," he tossed over his shoulder, shoving past Flash who had around the corner to investigate the commotion. 

"Diana?" Barry asked, nervous, following quickly in her wake as she hurried after Batman, her mouth forming words that Bruce had long since tuned out. 

"Batman!" Arthur shouted, rising when he saw the man stride into the meeting hall with an authority that not even broken ribs, concussion, internal bleeding and  _whatever else he had_ could negate. "You alright?"

"I'll live," he spat back, giving a reply only because Arthur was nice and didn't ask about Superman or talk about Bruce Wayne and, honestly seemed more interested in beer than love.

"B?"

The voice was quiet and soft and hesitant but layered with enough genuine concern and desperation that for a moment Bruce almost felt sorry for him. Then Diana's throw-away comment and Superman's dismissal all those months ago slammed into him and the feeling vanished like smoke on the wind. But still his mouth wouldn't shape words, couldn't shape words, so he did what he was best at, exiting stage left with as much flair and as much mystery as he could. 

They didn't follow him. 

Alfred was a visage of concern when Bruce finally climbed out of the Batmobile, letting every inch of his pain show on his face. 

"Master Wayne," he murmured, kind and understanding, taking Bruce's weight like it was nothing. "I've taken the liberty of making you some cocoa." 

Cocoa. He felt like he was a child again, sobbing into Alfred's shirt and screaming himself hoarse because his parents were gone and he felt so alone in the world. 

"He likes me," Bruce offered, voice scratchy and numb. 

Alfred smiled gently, catching Bruce's gaze and pouring as much love and affection as he could into the look, knowing that Bruce needed it. Really _**needed**_ it. "Of course he does, Master Wayne," he whispered, like the words were a secret. "After all, there isn't anything to _dis_ like."


	8. day five hundred and thirty seven

"He misses you, you know?"

It had been too many days to count (see: nine) since he'd stumbled home, numb with too much emotion, and let Alfred wrap him in blankets and make him enough cocoa with marshmallows to last a lifetime. The moments had felt blurred, disbelief overlaying each rising sense of rage or despair or cruel, crippling irony that his manufactured monster could see or earn the romantic overtures of his soulmate while Bruce Wayne, the desperate boy buried inside still screaming for his parents, was little more than an inconvenience. It was only the following morning, when the haze began to lift from his mind and, while still a little foggy and heavy, his thoughts began to string a little clearer, his memory sharper, his focus - blunted - but far from useless, picked up on something that hurt more than Clark's inadvertent confession:

Alfred felt guilty.

And it wasn't fleeting, nor an itch he couldn't quite scratch, it burned inside him. The Brit had tightened down every emotion he had, clearly afraid that he was going to lose  _all_ of them should one get free. The billionaire, clad in an old, worn-soft jumper, cotton pants and woollen socks, with a blanket draped over his shoulders, had confronted him as the man puttered about, making yet  _more_ hot chocolate.  

"Master Bruce, had I not  _insisted_  -" he'd said, brow drawn together, lower lip quivering just enough to show he was holding back tears, while his eyes kept straying to his movements (too practiced to require attention, but a helpful distraction from his ward's gaze). 

Bruce had stood, stock still - stunned at the revelation - before shaking his head with enough force that he might have loosened his teeth had Alfred not made a wounded sound at the action. "No," the billionaire had spat, fire bleeding into his tone. "You are  _not_ responsible for...this, Alfred." He'd taken a deep breath, breathing out his assurances as thoroughly and as clearly as he could, repeating over and over that Clark's affection and Diana's meddling  _weren't_ on Alfred and the man should stop making himself sick with worry. "You just wanted someone to have my back, Alfred. And they did. And you were right, sometimes even Batman needs friends..."

"Not  _them_ ," Alfred had replied quickly, loyalty to Bruce like a wrecking-ball through whatever respect Clark and the others might have gained with their successful alliance with (and protection of) the Bat. And that was the last they had spoken of the League, both apparently content to move on and draw a firm, thick line underneath it - to preserve not only Bruce's sanity, but Alfred's too. They were, after all, the only people they each had left in the world.

With that, Bruce had returned to his life  _before_ the League - scrambling across the rooftops of Gotham and throwing himself through windows, inspiring equal parts dread and hope - with little thought to the group of spandex clad supers lingering on the edges of the city limits, clearly eager to enter but fearful enough of his wrath not to venture over that line. It would be amusing if the heavy, layered hesitation wasn't so palpable and set Bruce's teeth on edge. 

The day hadbeen _blisteringly_ long, filled with too much social interaction (board meetings, even with competent people,  _sucked_ ) and already on five cups of coffee and four hours of sleep, by the time 2:00am rolled around, Bruce just wanted to  _stop_. Particularly after breaking up three armed robberies, a mugging / an attempted stabbing, an attempted sexual assault and no less that nine drug deals, the dealers all of whom were attempting trying to shift Scarecrow's latest batch of hallucinogenic narcotics. He'd practically thrown his evidence and suspect at Gordon before vanishing into the closest shadow and letting it carry him towards the cave. The Bat, fearsome reputation or not, was ready to turn in, even if he did have an hour's patrol left.

Aquaman, it seemed, didn't get the memo.

"Batman," he'd greeted, tone both hesitant and happy, as he landed heavily enough on the roof to crack the stone. Bruce sighed, keeping his gaze out on Gotham, using her streets as a buffer to ignore his roof-top companion. "You weren't answering your communicator," Arthur continued softly, seating himself on the ledge beside the Bat and swinging his legs over the side.

"It's currently at the bottom of Gotham harbour," Bruce replied, speaking the first sentence to one of the Justice League since the fight _after_ the fight against the Weaponers. 

Arthur laughed, loud and childish, before shrugging, as though he expected such an answer, and waving his trident around as though it weren't anything more than a cheap, pointy stick. "You know I can get that back for you, right?."

Bruce only hummed in reply. 

The mood turned suddenly serious and Arthur tensed a little, clearly unsure as to how his words were to be received, then:

"He misses you, you know?"

Bruce kept his silence. 

Arthur sighed, wedging the trident into a crack in the concrete of the roof before: "Can't convince you to come back?"

An icy laugh forced its way through Bruce's lips. "Its less complicated to work apart," he replied.

"Maybe," Arthur said, knocking his shoulder against Bruce with a wink. "But it's less fun." 

The half laugh that forced its way out surprised Bruce, and Arthur too if the way he raised his eyebrows at the grunt-choked off sound that the modulator made sound vaguely threatening. "Fun?" Batman asked, tone regulating back to the same, neutral he always sought to maintain.

"You know you're the most fun League member in my book, right? I mean, who else is gonna outsmart the shit out of Hal? His ego is like," he held out his arms, wide, "that big now." A grin. "It's been a week and he's already calling himself the team strategist. Plus, I mean Diana and Clark are great and all, but they can't plan for shit. They're both soldiers, and we need a general."

"You're a King." Bruce shot back in an instant.

Arthur laughed then. "That's a whole bucket of shit I ain't getting into now, Bats," he replied. "I don't want that - never did - but I got to, for my people. And I get that Gotham is your people, but I just gotta say, are you really going to leave the defense of _human kind_ to a group that aren't actually human?"

The Atlantian knew he'd said the right thing when he didn't immediately get a response. He grinned, standing and tugging the trident free as he did, lazily spinning it in his hand. "We all miss you Bats, but you'll do what you'll do. If you need help, dip a toe in the harbour and I'll come and give you a hand." 

The offer seemed genuine and Bruce couldn't help but allow a faint, brief, whisper of a smile to skitter across his lips. "I'll keep an eye turned to the tide," he offered with a nod, white lenses pinned to his face. 

Arthur laughed, unfazed. "Good enough. See you around Bats," he offered, before jumping off the roof and disappearing into the damp murk of Gotham, clearly content to quit while ahead. 

But the words wedged themselves deep into Bruce's bones and somehow, rather than stand, shoot off his grappling hook and swing away towards the manor, as he so desperately wanted to, he heaved in a deep sigh and fished out the burner phone he'd given to Clark all those months ago. It was encrypted, like the one he gave Diana, and he'd given it to Clark when they'd first become 'friends'. Bruce told himself it was a gesture of good faith on his part (as well as a giant hurdle to leap in dealing with his lingering, smarting rejection) and Superman had taken the 'emergencies only' to heart. That was, of course, until a few weeks later, when a close call saw the Metropolis hero smash into the earth at god-knows what speed after being knocked out of the sky. When he didn't immediately get up, Bruce's heart had stalled and when the cameras cut, it had skipped.

So Bruce turned to their 'emergency only' phone and sent a simple: " **You better not be dead Kal."**

It had been enough.

Their conversations were stilted and disjointed, dragged across days and weeks, their (Bruce's) replies only coming when they (Bruce) looked at the phone or concluded when they'd seen each other at Watchtower. It was simple too. Their correspondence reading like a series of random half thoughts and bad responses:

_"I tried enchiladas for the first time today. I don't like enchiladas."_

_"Pistachio ice cream is better in Italy."_

**"Of course it is, Kal."**

_"I can say hello and goodbye and thank you and you're welcome in Japanese now. Japanese people are lovely, B. Have you been?"_  

**"Once."**

_"I've only been a few times."_

_"They have a lot of bad weather here."_

_"You probably know that."_

" _I saved a man who was walking his a toddler on a child leash today, B. I thought leashes were for dogs."_

 **"I'm pretty sure they're called child reins."**  

_"They're weird."_

_"Jimmy finally got a photo of Superman yesterday."_

_"_ **He must be proud. Maybe he can delete the nine he has of Superman eating buffalo wings?"**

_"I'm not even going to ask how you know about those pictures."_

Bruce scrolled down to their most recent correspondence:  

_"Lois has a new boyfriend already. Jimmy told me. Apparently he's a football coach."_

**"What a step down."**

_"Thanks B. Apparently he went to Gotham U. A Gotham City guy and Lois? I laughed at the irony..."_

_"Is it terrible to wonder if she ever cared about me?"_

They'd shared enough Ben & Jerry's Ice Cream to cover that last one that Bruce never wanted to eat Pretzel Palooza ever again. Ironically, the other two flavours in the ice box had been Supermango Berry Belief (because of course Clark had a B&J flavour named after him) and Waynetastic Watermelon (he'd said he liked Watermelon flavoured gelato in  _one_ interview -  **one** ).  

Bruce heaved out a breath and typed. 

" **Kal. Gotham. We should talk."**

It took even less time that he was expecting. 

" _Okay, B. Give me five."_

Clark was there in four. 

Clark looked... not good. A little tired around the edges maybe - something that wasn't helped by the scruffy state of his shirt, hair and the lopsided slant of his glasses. It was a little jarring to see Clark  _as Clark_  rather than as the pinnacle of truth, justice and the American dream he so regularly was, particularly when stood opposite _Batman_ on a Gotham rooftop. The Kryptonian clearly picked up Batman's concern. "I was finishing an article for Perry," he explained, hand making a feeble gesture behind him. "No one will see me," he added, tossing the words into the silence, where they seemed to be swallowed whole. 

"I know," Bruce replied, because he did. He also took a moment to enjoy how seeing Clark didn't conjure up anything stronger than hesitation and mild nerves. Perhaps he was more tired that he realised.

"So, you want to, uh... _talk_?"

The billionaire winced and knew it must have translated poorly onto Batman's face if the expression Clark responded with was any indication. "Diana spoke to you?"

A blush tainted Clark's cheeks. "She mentioned she'd...said some, uh, things." His eyes darted around, landing anywhere but on Bruce. "About, uh, me. And about, uh, you..."

"She did," Bruce nodded slowly. 

"You didn't react well," Clark muttered, shoulders drooping a little. 

"I was blindsided," the older man confessed. "I didn't see it."

"World's Greatest Detective, eh?" the alien quipped, tone touching on bitter for a moment. Bruce ignored it. 

"It can't be," he grit out, astounded that this,  _this_ was his life. "You know that right, Kal?"

"B, I -"

"Clark," Bruce said firmly, switching tactic. "This  _cannot_ be. And rest assured that the  _things_ Diana mentioned can simply fade away on their own."

There was a heavy silence - one where Clark stood tall, squared his shoulders and jut his chin out as though Bruce had just issued him a challenge. 

"What if I don't want them to  _fade_ _away_?" he replied, tone every inch  _Superman_. 

Bruce offered a wry smile. "Why wouldn't you?"  _That_  threw the Man-Of-Steel. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, before setting his jaw stubbornly. "I'm not fishing, Kal. But you and Lois have just separated -"

" _Weeks ago,_ and  _she's_ moved on -" he protested.

"- and this is not real. This is you latching on to someone near you so you don't have to deal with  _why_ you ended things with Lois."

"B, I know my feelings. I know -"

"And I have just told you mine, Kal," Bruce replied, swallowing down the rising anger. "This cannot be,  _will not_ be."

The man seemed to deflate like a balloon, all fight hissing away in an instant. "Is, is this b-b-because of  _your_ S-soulmate?" he finally forced out, voice a little unsteady. "You, you s-said you didn't h-h-have one."

And for the first time, Bruce went with complete honesty. "Yes, it is about my Soulmate. I know them Kal. They're a part of my life. And after I met them, I burnt off my words, because  _ **Batman**_ cannot be weighed down by Soulmates.  _ **Batman**_ cannot be compromised in such a way. And Gotham will always come first. It was the best, most practical decision to preserve my life as it is, to remove such a thing."

He didn't realise he'd been shouting until his voice cracked.  

Clark was pale. Quiet and still and pale, eyes flicking down to his ribs, where the words he'd purged had once laid. Bruce's skin screamed. 

"You, you _burned_ them?" he whispered in a paper thin, deathly quiet voice.

"I didn't want them anymore," Batman growled out. 

And the chasm that existed between them was suddenly there for all to see.

"I'm sorry," Clark whispered, eyes wet -  _and when had he started crying?_

Bruce sighed, shaking his head. "I don't want your apologies, Kal. I just want this to _stop_."

Quiet, then:

"Okay," - almost lost on the wind as the alien dressed as a man rose slowly into the air, until he hovered above like a messiah returned from the skies. 

"Okay, B. **Okay** ," he repeated, voice wobbling enough to betray his effort in keeping it level. "Things will g-go back to the way they were."

With that, Clark was gone. 

And despite the fatigue gnawing at his bones; despite the knowledge that he'd achieved exactly what he wanted with Clark; despite a perverse sense of satisfaction watching Clark crumple with rejection the way Bruce had all those months ago; by the time Bruce finally dragged his weary body into bed, he found he couldn't sleep at all and the only sight behind his lids were the tears that had tracked his Soulmate's cheeks.


	9. day six hundred and twelve

If Bruce was honest with himself, Clark's promise was empty and foolish - and his acceptance of such a promise even more so. 

Nothing, irregardless of Clark's word, would return to normal. Too much had changed:  _they_ had changed. Too many words said, even more unsaid, hung in the air, anchored to their souls and destined to drape themselves around them like thick, heavy cloaks. Even with their best intentions, their dedication, their stubbornness, every exchange was tinged with Clark's brokenheartedness and Bruce's defiance. 

Even before Bruce saw Clark sobbing helplessly into Diana's shoulder after a team meeting at Watchtower, he knew there was no way things could go back to the way they were. Superman's smiles were brittle - a far cry from the sun-drenched spectacle that had weakened Bruce's knees - and his tone a strained, forced chirpy. Even Arthur, who it seemed had decided to side with Batman over the debacle, couldn't control the flashes of pity that broke over his face at the sight of Clark desperately holding himself together. 

The feelings that Bruce had hoped would disappear only grew stronger with time and the man finally realised that any hope of Clark moving on was gone. He was, after all, in love with his Soulmate. His feelings had just come twenty months too late. 

But still they pretended. They forced themselves into a pattern of pretence, mutually deciding that ignoring the problem was a lot better than addressing it. Luckily for Bruce, none of the League tried to butt in, having learned from Diana's mistake that trying to making the Batman talk about  _feelings_ was a hopeless feat destined only for failure and drama. But even with their supposed neutrality in the affair, all but Arthur minimised their interactions with him, choosing instead to focus efforts on keeping Clark happy: games nights, movies, breakfasts together, trips to museums or, in Barry's case, help on an article he was writing about crime lab efficiency. In a way that made Bruce content - glad to see he would not have to step in and try and 'help' Clark. Arthur though had commandeered most of the time Clark had once occupied. Making jokes with Batman about Atlantis and asking for opinions on navigating Atlantean politics. The King, it seemed, had decided Bruce was the best person to teach him about how to be a leader. 

They'd even teamed up once, outside of the League, when Penguin had tried to release toxic chemicals into the harbour:  _'why to poison Gotham,_ _Batman_ '. Arthur had  _taken offence_ at that, bursting out of the water with a bitch stare a mile wide, clearly furious at the notion of any water being poisoned. Penguin had jumped, startled, and brandished his umbrella at the King in defence. 

Arthur had turned to Bruce: "Your villains are  _weird_." Then he'd punched Oswald in the face.

Alfred had laughed at the thought when Bruce recounted the tale later, his mentor clearly approving of the new found friendship between the King of Atlantis and the Bat of Gotham. 

Clark didn't, though. It took a few weeks to notice, but jealous grew on Clark like a mould. His awkwardness with Bruce was unwavering, but his kindness towards Arthur was. His words became clipped, his smile became a frown, his gaze became accusing. Arthur had noticed too, quietly asking Batman if they should reassure Clark nothing was going on. 

"It wouldn't be his business if it was," was the Bat's only reply. And that was that. Bruce understood, on a basic level, that Clark was experiencing what  _he_ had, with Lois. The uncontrollable revulsion at another person that wasn't him, linger a little too closely, must have been like nails in Clark's skin. A feeling that would only grow with time. After all, what person could stand the thought of knowing _their_ person might belong to someone else? - other than Bruce, of course.

And while it didn't come to a head in the traditional sense, Bruce found himself calling Clark out anyway, some ten weeks after their discussion on a Gotham rooftop. 

It had, in a way, been his own fault. Distracted at having to attend some ridiculous Military Ferris Aircraft Gala later that evening, knowing that Clark  _and_ Hal were also going to be in attendance, he'd not been completely on point when battling a group of mercenaries who had, somehow, stumbled across both a stash of alien tech and a cache of Kryptonite. Superman, vulnerable near the rock, was maintaining a perimeter and getting civilians out of harms way, while the rest of the League battled the group. The Bat had almost been taken out by a well aimed blast from whatever weapon Thug No. 6 had grabbed, when he was suddenly dragged out of the way by none other than Mr Red-White-and-Blue. Who then, promptly, keeled over at proximity to the meteors, leaving Barry scrambling as he speed off to catch a civilian falling from a nearby bridge and gave the Thugs the upper hand. 

Temporarily, of course.

When they'd won and returned the tech to Watchtower for Victor to study, Bruce had laid into Clark, furious.

"What was  _that_?" he'd spat.

"They fired at your head, B!" the alien exclaimed. "Even you can't take a hit like that!"

"You abandoned your post," Bruce returned. "You left civilians unguarded, you left yourself vulnerable, you left -"

"I WAS TRYING TO SAVE YOU!"

"AND THAT'S THE PROBLEM!" Batman shouted back. "You  ** _promised me_** Kal, that these feelings would not compromise the League. You  _promised_. We cannot work together if this is what will happen."

He'd left after that. Not having the time, nor inclination, to get into a shouting match with the Man-Of-Steel. 

Although now, looking across the ballroom at Clark in a $70 suit, recorder in one hand and a notebook shoved hastily into his back pocket, he wish he had. At least then he could avoid _this_. 

In a room bursting with the obscenely rich and plastically beautiful, Clark Kent stood out like a sore thumb.

He was a beacon, constantly reminding Bruce he was there and making it exceedingly difficult to stay in character. This was the first time, after all, that Brucie Wayne and Clark Kent had been in the same room with one another. And it seemed that the Kryptonian knew that too. Hal, hovering just to the left, seemed content to split his time staring longingly after Carol Ferris or playing bodyguard for Kal.  _Emotional support Lantern_ , a voice in Bruce's head offered. 

After watering most of the plants in the room with booze, Bruce let his limbs loosen a little and stumbled to the bar, leaning heavily and calling: "Another please, kind sir," to the bartender, who only rolled his eyes in response, walking off to fetch another of whatever champagne Bruce had spent his evening wasting.

"Bruce Wayne," a familiar voice said from behind, a long shadow falling over him. 

"Yeah," Bruce replied, letting his words slur just a little, before letting his gaze drag up and down in clear appreciation - because that's what Brucie would do. Internally he was flailing. Would Clark - the man who claimed to love the Batman - see beneath the veneer that Bruce had spent so long crafting? Would he know, somehow? If not,  _why_ was he present? Now that Batman was uninterested, was the alien turning his gaze back to the one that the universe had said was his? There were a dozen questions burning through his skull and it took every inch of his composure to keep his heart-rate steady and his gaze hooded and lax: unfocused and leery rather than scrutinising.

The man flailed for a moment, clearly not expecting the billionaire to use _bedroom_ eyes. "I'm Clark Kent," he continued, glancing back towards Hal who was watching him with an unnerving amount of attention. 

"Hello," Bruce said, voice dripping with innuendo after a second of silence. A small part of him relished the opportunity to mess with the man who'd upended his life so spectacularly.

"I'm, uh -" The man seemed both perplexed and unmoored. "I'm a reporter," he said stupidly, like that would stop someone as singularly focused as Brucie.

"Okay," he purred.

"For the Planet," he added after a moment. 

Again, Bruce gave him nothing but a leer. "Don't I own that paper?" he smirked, amused. "Are you going to ask me for an _exclusive_?" He was laying it on a little thick now and he could  _see_ both Alfred's disapproving glare in his mind's eye and the flushed, scrambling countenance of Clark.

"I know," Clark snapped, irritation leaking into his tone as he fought to control his embarrassment. "And no." He looked at Hal again (for reassurance or confirmation, Bruce didn't know). 

"Wayne," the bartender cut in, offering them both a reprieve, handing him a glass that was bubbling a little too much. 

"Thanks good-looking," he crowed with a wink, taking the offering and ignoring the eye roll from the man behind the counter, clearly used to being hit on by the obnoxious and the drunk. 

"Mister Wayne," Clark said, drawing his attention back. 

"Yes Chad," he said. 

"It's Clark."

"Whatever," the billionaire shrugged, feigning a loss of interest.

"Look, I'd like to talk to you -"

" _Brucie_!" came a squeal from across the room, followed closely by the sound of high heels on marble and _holy shit_ Bruce had never been more  **grateful** for an interruption before in his life. He didn't want to know what Clark wanted to say and,  _honestly,_ if the superhero had decided that now the Bat wasn't an option, Bruce was, he was going to claw out Kal's eyes with Kryptonite. Because no. 

Just, fucking, no.

He found he suddenly had an armful of Miss Oklahoma, followed closely by Iowa. "We were  _looking_ for you," they cried, voice pitching just a little into fake.

"I'm here," Bruce grinned, swallowing down the urge to retch at the smell of her perfume. He glanced back up at Clark, letting his face reflect the intentions of the two girls beside him (who would end the night in their own beds after a taxi takes them home because: _'sorry, ladies but you've had a few and consent is sexy as fuck, don't you agree?'_ ). "The ladies come first, Daily Planet," he laughed, swaying into Clark's space and giving a leery smile before letting the two girls drag him away, missing the frown that was suddenly plastered across Clark's face.

A frown that Hal immediately noticed as he sidled up beside him. 

"You alright?" 

Clark paused, unsure. "Do you think Cyborg's offer to look into Wayne is still there?" he murmured, eyes watching as Bruce stumbled through the crowd.

Hal choked. "What? Why? Dude's a dumb, sex-obsessed drunk, what more do you need to know?" he snorted. "Sorry but you drew the short straw in the Soulmate game."

There was a moment of quiet where Clark turned to Hal, confusion and disbelief on his features. "A drunk who didn't smell like he'd had a _single_   _ **drop**  _of alcohol?"

"Wait, you -"

"I think," Clark murmured, "that Bruce Wayne is a better actor than we think, because Hal, that man," he said, jerking his head towards the  _mess_ that was Brucie, "is stone cold sober."


	10. day seven hundred and thirty seven, morning

"You were right, you know," Kal said as he sat down beside him, a calmness in his voice that Bruce hadn't heard in a while. 

"I usually am," the Bat replied, modulator grating the syllables into unyielding sounds. A pause. "About...?" he prompted. 

Clark smiled, a quiet, understated sort of thing. "Me," he murmured, "running from the reason why Lois and I broke up."

The onset of winter was baring down fast upon them and the trees that filled the park stood bare, made ghastly by the faint, orange glow of the street-lamps. A frost was settling and Bruce had spent almost an hour watching it blanket his city in a thin, translucent carpet of white. It was a white that wouldn't last under the boots of his people, but lay unsettled in the early hour. The city would wake long before the sun did, but Bruce wanted to watch the sunrise halo over the monoliths and dye the frost amber and red. Breath swirled before him and he'd been lost in memories of earlier, happier times in Wayne Manor, challenging his father to contests of who could produce the most impressive gust of breath. Even knowing the winter brought more difficulties, drawing out Gotham's selfish side as she hoarded her shadows and darkness, instead offering enough white to thrust him into the light, Bruce couldn't help but enjoy the change in seasons. 

He'd been wrapped in quiet contemplation for a while, a silent guardian who seemed unneeded for the night, when Kal drifted downwards. 

Now, he couldn't help but look at the alien, curious as to his intentions. Clark took that as an invitation to continue. 

"I was running," he breathed out. "From Wayne." He paused, head dropping a little. "I can't remember my first words to him, but his were:  _'I know, you've been reminding me that every day for thirty seven years_ ', and I when he said that, I forgot what I'd always known about those words... that, for my Soulmate, they were everything." A wry smile crept onto his lips. "My Ma always said that my Soulmate was the first person I saved and I believed it, until -"

"Until it was Wayne," Bruce offered quietly. He felt no fear, no concern, nothing but quiet, understated contentment that seeped through his bones.

"Until it was Wayne," Clark echoed. "It just... I mean I know that the public is cruel and unforgiving and that people are often not what they seem, but in all the years he's been in Gotham, did you know there's never been a good headline? If he's not making bad company decisions, or fighting off an attempted coup by his board members who all claim incompetence, then he's galavanting around Europe with Swedish models..." There was a long sigh. "The day I met him, I'd just bought an engagement ring," he confessed, turning to lock gazes with the white lenses of the cowl. "It was in my pocket and all I could think about was how Lois would never wear it. Then I thought about how I'd have to return it, and I was so angry that this man, who I had  _no_ respect for, was rearranging my life and even without knowing it, he was demanding things of me I didn't want." He shook his head, casting his gaze out over Gotham. "I think I knew, deep down, that Lois and I weren't going to be forever, but I wanted us to be. She's smart and beautiful and kind and -"

"Normal," Bruce finished. 

"And normal." A breath. "So I started running from it. From him. And I was certain that I'd never stop. Then I met you, B. And something clicked. It was like how I always imagined meeting your Soulmate would be. You challenged me and annoyed me and demanded more but you listened and encouraged and made me laugh, and even Lois noticed. She called me out a few times on talking about you. She even asked if you were my Soulmate - it was why I ended up telling her about Wayne. I think, even though she was mad, she was happier it was somebody like Brucie, because it meant it wasn't you. It meant there may have been hope for her and I. When we broke up, she was angry - you know that - but she said later that I was using Wayne as an excuse. That I'd already changed my mind about her. She called me a coward." A long, heavy sigh whistled through Clark's teeth, leaving a steam of air swirling before them. "And I wasn't sure if I was ever going to tell you, but Diana, well - we all saw what happened there. But then you knew.... And I'm not saying this to ask you to change your mind, B. I know where you stand. I also know that while you wouldn't lie to spare my feelings, you wouldn't be cruel either... you're too good for that. I do want to say sorry about the, um, the Arthur overreaction. I have no say in what you do, B. It was just a little jarring."

"I'm teaching him how to be a King," Bruce offered, taking pity on the superhero beside him. A superhero who had, slowly but steadily, been regaining Bruce's favour. They had lost most of the awkwardness that had lingered over them for so long and were beginning to return to that easy friendship that had dominated so many months. Bruce's risk was worth it as Clark's expression, his incredulous surprise turning his features ridiculously close to that of an emoji, before softening tremendously, made a ghost of a smile flit over his lips. 

"Of course you are," he murmured, affection leaking through every word. "B, you're -" he swallowed, shaking his head once. "I won't ask you to change your mind. I just wanted to say that I'm going to clear things up with Wayne. I'm going to apologise. Victor and I, we did some digging, and, well, while there's a lot that guy hides, what we found was good. Charity donations and relief funds; the best workers rights and wages in the country; not to mention the program he has for rehabilitating youth offenders - that's to say, he's not what I thought he was. I'm not ever going to love him, but I don't think I have to hate him, or what he is, anymore. And that's because of you, B. Because you called me out and made me see that what I was doing wasn't healthy. So thanks," he offered, smile gentle and just a little lopsided. 

Bruce took a long, deep inhale, pushing down the worry at Clark and Victor  _investigating_ him, and instead nodding once. "That's mature of you," he murmured. 

The tension eased a little when Superman laughed, chest shaking with it. "It took a while," he confessed. "I mean, at first I was just going to get closure for myself. Hal talked me into talking to Wayne, without him knowing it was me, of course," he added, anticipating a worry that Bruce had forgotten he needed to fabricate, "but I never thought about what type of closure he might need." His eyes were  _burning_ with a number of emotions that the billionaire wasn't sure humans could even understand, let alone experience. "It was selfish, not to think like that. In a way, I thought that maybe he wouldn't care? That me saying I didn't want  _that_ with him would be - be like water off a duck's back," he chuckled. "I don't think it was though."

Even though Bruce already knew the answer, he asked anyway: "What changed?"

Kal cast his gaze out once more to the horizon. "There was a gala I was covering - it was the time after we, uh, had the disagreement about the Kryptonite and me, uh, doing something I wasn't supposed to."

"When you saved me so well you then needed saving?" Batman clarified and even with the cowl, he was sure the alien could  _see_ his bitch face.

"Yeah, well, that's beside the point," he huffed. "It was that night. I was annoyed at you - again - and well I was hurt too. Then I see Wayne there - I didn't even know he was involved with Ferris - and I figured that then was the best time to just do it. To walk up to the man and tell him that I didn't love him, that I'd never love him but that I wished him well in life. That I hoped he could find someone who would love him for him, rather than for whatever the Swedish models love him for -"

"Money and sex, usually," Batman interjected. 

" - and, anyway," he ploughed onwards, cheeks tinged red, "he was his usual, tabloid self: obnoxious and hitting on anything that moved. I was getting more and more irritated, more furious at the universe telling me that he was  _mine_ , when I noticed something." He turned to the Bat, smiling a little brighter now. "You'd have been proud," he added. "I was, perhaps, the world's second best detective then."

"Kal."

"He wasn't drunk," Clark said. "Not even a little bit. He was stumbling around as though he'd drunk half of the wine cellar, but I could tell he hadn't had anything and I wondered, then, why? Then I wondered if he did that often: pretend to be drunk when he wasn't." A pause. "Did you know that every time W.E. proposed a significant project that improved society but dented their bottom line, Wayne did something outrageous and stupid. I thought it was a coincidence at first but... all those things Victor and I found? The workers rights, the living wage, the relief charities - if they received resistance from the W.E. board, then within  _days_ , Wayne was embarrassing the company just enough for them to jump on the project so to regain standing. And I think he knows that. I think he knows that the world doesn't take him seriously, because he's under-qualified or because of past indiscretions, I'm not sure, but I'm sure he's aware of being the butt of every joke. And I think he knows that he can get more done by forcing the board's hand than by trying to make the world see him as something more than a trust fund."

Only the low hum of Gotham replied, Batman too focused on keeping himself from laughing in disbelief at the frenetic speed of his heart and the fact his Soulmate had finally decided to act as an investigative journalist. 

"That's an interesting theory," he eventually replied, so incredibly grateful for the modulator that hid the wavering and cracking in his voice.

"World's Second Best Detective," Superman repeated, before glancing up and away, beyond Gotham to whatever crisis was beckoning him. He turned back though, hesitant. 

"Go, Kal," Batman ordered. A smile, wistful and relieved, before Superman flashed out of sight. 

Batman followed as quickly as he could, wheels of the Batmobile decimating the thin frost he'd so painstakingly watch being formed. He felt a tightness in his chest he couldn't name. It felt like panic, but  _more._ He felt like screaming. He felt like giggling hysterically. He felt like punching Clark in the face before dragging him in for a kiss. His Soulmate was an idiot, a morally superior, frightened, jealous, good-hearted, judgemental idiot. 

But still, **his** idiot. 

Alfred would know what to do. 

He'd know how to make it better. 

He tore into the cave a little too fast if the cracking in the shielding and the dangerous swing of the lights were any indication. 

"Might I suggest not destroying the entire place, sir," Alfred snarked, peering around the monitors. "We wouldn't want Wayne manor collapsing on us would we?" He paused, taking in Bruce's stance. "Oh, for goodness sake, don't tell me," he said, throwing his hands up in irritation, "Clark."

"He wanted to talk about his feelings for me," Bruce replied, not even the modulator crunching the words enough to dissipate the conflicting irritation and confusion there. 

"Well, I daren't ask what he said this time," Alfred muttered. Bruce scowled, pulling off the cowl. 

"Something tells me you already have an idea," he snorted, dragging a hand through his hair.

"If you knew what was good for you, Master Wayne, then you wouldn't ask my opinion on, on  _him_."

Bruce couldn't help but laugh, the pain in his chest easing at the intensity in which his mentor defended him. "Of course," he smiled, rolling his eyes. "Right now, if Batman didn't work with him, I'd be more than happy not to think about him or this love triangle insanity for at least a month."

"Master Wayne," Alfred retorted, picking a mug of what appeared to be tea and stomping off, "I'd more than happily never talk of it again."

"Amen," he muttered, dropping the cowl before heaving out a weighted breath. "This was all a lot easier before you were apparently dateable," he accused the empty cowl. "We could just be lonely old people together, content without Soulmates."

"You better not be calling me lonely," Alfred said, bursting back into the room as though remembering he'd left Bruce there, "or old," he added, ushering his ward upstairs. "Master Wayne we cannot spend any longer in this awful cave. Come on, I'll make pancakes, and I suppose we'll _have_ to discuss the Batman-Superman mess too." He gestured to the stairs before pausing and adding loudly. "You better not just leave the armour lying about, sir, or you'll be making your own breakfast."

Bruce rolled his eyes but did, of course, what his mentor demanded. 

After all, Alfred often knew best.


	11. day seven hundred and thirty seven, afternoon

Bruce received the summons to Watchtower fifteen minutes after he'd woken from his nap. It was little after noon, which Alfred had informed him was  _"Long enough in bed, thank you Master Wayne, even with your extracurricular activities"_. Bruce would have snarked back that his mentor was just as to blame, feeding him breakfast at 4am before packing him off to sleep at 5am, but a single eyebrow raising into Alfred's hairline made him pause. 

Alfred had been both brutally honest with his opinion about the Clark situation and equally understanding. He would never, truly forgive Clark the pain he put Bruce through, but he was still the same traditionalist he had always been - and he knew that his ward's best chance for happiness had always lain with the owner of the words on his skin. 

Words that _used_ to be on his skin.

He hadn't spoken to Bruce for two days at that revelation. Then he'd pulled the man he so often saw as a boy into a bone crushing hug. "You, Master Wayne, are a stubborn fool," he'd breathed, tears in his voice. And that was the last they'd spoken of it.

Alfred had taken the position that while Clark  _should_ know who lay beneath the cowl and Bruce should  _not_ ignore any growing feelings that surged at the sight of Superman, he should be cautious. Desperately cautious.

"And if you take that man to bed before I give my approval, Master Wayne, you will be doing your own laundry and meals for a  _year_ ," he swore. Like Bruce would do much without his guardian on board. Even when reluctant, even when cursing his ward, Alfred still sat at the monitors in the cave, patched up his wounds and made him tea at the end of a long shift. It was that sort of support Bruce needed - especially when Dick barely spoke to him anymore and the implosion that was his relationship with Jason. Bruce had tried to blame everyone for that: Jason himself, Alfred, even Felipe Garzonas, but really it was down to him. 

His decision hadn't been easy, but he'd decided, with Alfred's approval, to tell Clark who he was when the Kryptonian came to get closure with Brucie. He only hoped he'd be able to keep his nerve.

The billionaire managed to polish off an almost empty box of pop-tarts before pulling on the suit and cowl, slipping into the Bat plane (stealth mode firmly  _on_ of course) and jetting towards Watchtower, Alfred's snarky remarks echoing in his ear. 

Watchtower had flourished in the months since its inception in an abandoned Metropolis warehouse, and even Bruce (if he was honest with himself) enjoyed being in the place. There was an atmosphere that the cave lacked: an optimism, a light, an eagerness that was found often in children and rarely in those who had been fighting for as long as Bruce had. It was a pleasant break from Gotham, no matter how much he loved his city. Even if he had to endure the bouncing enthusiasm of Barry, who had spent several of the Bat's last visits lording his triumph over Abra Kadabra. A villain who had, Bruce later discovered, been forcing his audiences to clap for him after his magic performances via hypnotic device. Flash had explained it more thoroughly of course, and the clever way in which he defeated such a foe, but the only thought in Bruce's head had been: " _This boy is so lucky the Joker finds him dull_."  

It wasn't unusual for the hallways to be empty, but it  _was_ strange to see the League were all already seated at their round table (a dip into his sentimental side), looking sombre, their brows drawn tight.

"Batman," Diana greeted with a firm nod, not rising from her seat. It was Barry, though, who gave the game away. Barry, who wouldn't meet his eyes, choosing instead to fix his gaze at the centre of the table itself. Barry, who didn't bound up to him, nattering at a hundred miles an hour, ignorant of any irritation Bruce might be feeling.

"Diana," the billionaire returned, tilting his head just enough to convey his confusion. 

Clark wasn't looking at him either. 

His eyes were red, too. And not in the about to laser through steel way.

"Please sit, Batman," she replied, sounding every inch the Princess they all knew she was. Bruce complied, moving slowly but keeping every sense alert. She took in a deep breath once he'd settled. "If I'm honest Batman, I'm not really sure where to start, I -"

"I do," Hal cut in immediately, angry and uncontrolled. "He sold us out."

"Lantern," Diana hissed. 

" **No** ," he shouted, pushing back his chair and standing, arms thrown wide and ring flashing bright green for a moment. "I mean, finding his secret kill in case one of us goes bad plans was bad enough, but finding out he's been hooking up with Bruce-fucking- _Wayne_  - Bruce-fucking-Wayne who  _ **knows our identities**_?!"

"We don't -"

"If he's told Wayne Superman's identity, you can't think he hasn't told him ours too, Princess,  _come on_?! I mean, seriously?"

There was a moment where nothing other than ' _the fuck_?' bounded around the inside of Batman's skull. For once, no plan immediately sprang to mind, nor was there an explanation. He couldn't understand what they were accusing him of,  _why_ they were accusing him of it, or  _how_ they'd come to the (incorrect) conclusion about Wayne. Why was Wayne even  _mentioned_?

Somehow, he managed to hold up a hand, silencing their shouting match (although Hal looked even more incensed at being quietened like a dog). He stared straight across the table, trying to catch Clark's eye but, when that failed, Bruce turned and pinned the white lenses of his cowl to Arthur, who had, as of then, been completely silent. 

"Explain," he demanded, voice colder than ice. 

"Victor found contingency plans installed in the Watchtower sub-protocols. Automated responses to...  _neutralise_ us... should we decide villainy paid better we presume," he began, tone flat: factual and dispassionate, exactly what Bruce wanted in the middle of such insanity. "She called Clark, who was in Metropolis putting out a house fire. Once we explained, he assured us it was a misunderstanding. He flew to Gotham to find you. He was about to give up when he suddenly heard your heartbeat. He followed it and ended up over Wayne Manor. He heard you talking to Wayne's butler - apparently the man isn't a fan of his," he paused, ignorant of how Bruce was fifteen seconds from a panic attack. "Then he heard you talking to Wayne. Apparently the three of you shared a joke at his expense. Obviously, Clark was upset, but it wasn't until he'd got back to Watchtower that he realised Wayne called him  _Clark_." 

 _How had Clark heard_ **_three people,_ ** _he hadn't -_

The cowl. He took the cowl off. Modulated, then  _not_ modulated.  

And three heartbeats: Alfred's, his... and the automated one built into the suit.  _Shit_.  **Three.**

**How, though?**

_'You cracked the shielding. The cave is vulnerable._   _The sensors must be damaged too. The cave is_ **_compromised_.**'

 **"** The League is  _ **compromised**_!" Hal was shouting and it was clear Bruce had missed some further explanation, but he couldn't see past the colossal _fuck up_ that was happening around him. Barry looked on the verge of tears. 

"Your identities are not compromised," he growled, furious at the distrust because these people  _gave away their identities to_ ** _everyone_**. But, in their eyes, the Batman trusts one,  _one_ person and he gets - 

"I assume Wayne is your benefactor," Victor chimed in, tone significantly calmer than those around him. The others blinked in shock, clearly not having considered such a thing. "Your tech is second to none, no doubt most are prototypes. How can you get access to that without millions?"

"What, Wayne's your sugar daddy, is that it?" Hal spat. "You roll over and what, he gives you toys?" Bruce ignored the urge to punch Jordon until his face collapsed in on itself... and the wounded noise that torn itself from Clark's throat. "Is that how you get kicks? Fucking Superman's soulmate?" 

"He financed the Watchtower, too, didn't he?" Diana asked quietly, an authority in her voice that didn't need volume, and deliberately ignoring the vulgarity Hal was spewing. 

"That would explain his financials. And the off-the-books stuff we couldn't crack into," he added, turning to Clark. 

"Shit, how deep in are you with this fool?" Hal cursed, slamming his hands down on the table. 

"Lantern," Diana ordered, "sit down, this is -"

"Did he know it was me? At the gala. Did he know?" 

Clark's voice was fragile and Bruce had an overwhelming, violent urge to remove the cowl. He wanted to. He wanted to take the broken, desperate, heart-wrenching tone and burn it to ash; because for the first time, he didn't want Clark to experience what he had. He didn't want Clark to bury himself in pain and throw himself at fights in the hope the agony would stop. He didn't want Clark to be forced before a fireplace and  _do-what-had-to-be-done_. Maybe that made him pathetic. Maybe it made him strong. But while that side  _raged_ , the Batman was cold fury. 

They were supposed to be past this. 

Clark, Clark had spent their morning talking about assumptions and misunderstandings and wanting to  _move on_. And here he was. Making assumptions, not giving time for any explanation. They had already reached their verdict. They all had.  _Clark_ had.

It seemed, for all his talk, he still wasn't ready. 

And Bruce had not spent years breaking his knuckles and spitting out teeth to have his identity given away to soothe a broken man's soul and a petulant man's anger. It was worth more than that.  ** _He_** was worth more than that. 

So rather than yield to the whims of the angry or the upset, he simply rose slowly, presence as dominating as he could make it. "Your identities are not compromised," he repeated, ignoring the half sob that came with his silence to Clark's question. "And if they are, it is through your  **own**  actions."

"We  _trusted_ you," Barry finally choked out, face crumpled in the kind of despair a child has at hearing of their parent's separation. 

A broken laugh bubbled up from between Batman's lips. "And I you, but trust is not complacency, Flash..." His voice dropped from disbelief into understated rage. "I trusted you knew the kind of person I was," he added, unwilling to move his gaze from Clark. "But apparently not..." And he was sure his thoughts mirrored Clark's own. But the man sat opposite had all but said he loved him. How could he feel that and believe that he would jeopardise the identities of the League? How could he be in love and believe that Bruce would willingly humiliate him, turn him into a bad joke? He couldn't. 

He  **couldn't.**

And while it took an age to decide to tell Clark it was him beneath the mask, it took no time at all to decide not to. 

"I quit."

Shock.

Silence.

The sound of heavy boots on hard floor. The low hum of the engines of the Batplane.

Then, Alfred:

"A productive meeting, sir?"

A deep, rasping, near hysterical breath.

"The cave shielding is compromised," he replied, not removing the cowl, and striding to the nearest workbench. "Superman is listening." 

Alfred's answering gasp was swallowed by the spitting of the blow torch...and the blazing roar of blood in Bruce's ears.


	12. day nine hundred and fifty eight

Winter and Spring had both lived and died before Bruce saw Clark again.

The Dark Knight had watched his city freeze, thaw, bloom, wither and begin to writhe under the impending heat with a dispassionate eye, cordoning off what remained of his heart with all the ferocity of Bane and the frenetic paranoia of the Joker. The League had come close to discovering him -  _too_ close - and their reaction was a fog horn, parting his budding trust in an instant. They had proven they couldn't be trusted: they too rash, too bullish, too _emotional_ to consider reason. And reason was all Bruce was now-a-days. Emotion had seen his sons driven from his side and his Soulmate crumpled in despair in the face of a situation more akin to a Shakespearean comedy than a meeting room hidden in the bowels of Metropolis.

Although, while Bruce had contained himself to the back-alleys and rooftops of Gotham, skirting the occasional question Gordon would ask about "his new friends", the League had expanded. Television screens broadcast their exploits in high definition, with garish, glaring captions confining their accomplishments to eight words or less. They were beacons, shining out into the world; coveted by nations and exalted like new deities or second comings.

At first, the headlines had screamed in his absence. _Where is the Batman?_ and  _Is the Bat injured?_ and  _No Dark Knight in Justice League_ cried out, giving voice to the eager, curious, greedy public that yearned for news. Reporters had flung forth questions with persistence and ferocity, but still no answer was given. The League remained tight-lipped. Offering nothing to suggest they even  _knew_ the Bat, let alone had entwined themselves so deep into his life that ripping them out had _hurt_ Bruce more than he expected. Although, while no member commented, anyone with eyes could see the issue was an open wound: festering and turning green in its neglect. Their jaws, so tight they creaked, and the brief flicker of rage that flashed across Lantern's face, or the pursed nature of Diana's lips, showed their displeasure - their anger - at what the people were calling _'The Bat Question'_.

A question arguably answered one early morning in January, when, Bruce discovered that the question as to whether the Bat would return was a resounding  _no_. His place was no longer vacant, it seemed.

They called him 'Manhunter' and he was a green-skinned Martian who seemed to slip into place with an ease that Bruce envied. A stronger man might let the speed of his replacement slide off his back, but Bruce was not a stronger man, and five of Scarecrow's dealers found themselves beaten a few inches from death. Gordon had frowned, looking over his glasses and remarked:

"It's been a while since you've gone that far," with all the authority and concern of Alfred. The Bat had been stoic. Still and unmoving in the face of such a sentence. The Commissioner had shaken his head, once, then twice, before: "I'd take black over green any day," in a voice that could have been used to remark on the weather, but in the face of Bruce's conflicted heart, felt like a warm, soothing balm against his soul. They hadn't spoken of it again, and if Bruce pulled his punches a little better when he returned to patrol after their talk, well that was his business. 

Eventually the people lost interest: enough crises had been averted by the new Justice League to believe in their worth and effectiveness, even without the World's Best Detective. By the fourth aversion in late February, there seemed to be an acceptance that the darkest hero amongst them had returned his focus to his city streets and that the League would no be offering an explanation as to why.

Kal hadn't approached him - either as Batman or as Brucie - and Bruce had done nothing to seek out his soulmate either. The alien would find him or he wouldn't. In a way, Bruce couldn't begrudge him his distance, professionally, personally and as a journalist (Clark Kent hadn't attended a single Wayne fundraiser and all articles remotely concerning either Gotham or W.E. had been written by underlings with neither a Kent nor a Lane byline in sight). Bruce himself had sought out distance in the wake of his rejection, why should Clark not covet the same thing? Not even his passioned speech beneath the crisp Gotham air all those nights ago about finding peace for himself and for  _Brucie_ could quell the anger and humiliation Clark no doubt endured as a result of their monumental misunderstanding.

A misunderstanding Bruce wasn't sure he intended to correct. 

It was an ordinary, but  _busy_ , Wednesday morning when the billionaire heard Clark's name again. It was an offhanded mention by his secretary that he'd not really comprehended until his mind ground to a halt and said:

"Sorry, what?"

The woman blinked owlishly, lips pursing just a little. "The reporter, Mister Wayne, from the Daily Planet. You approved the interview a week ago, sir. Mister Kent is waiting downstairs. It's about the Wayne Biotech advances in autologous cell therapy for treating HIV, sir." 

"Uh," Bruce replied stupidly, "can't you make them go away?"

Her face was one of incredulity. "Sir, this interview has already been rescheduled twice," she offered, tone indicating that _no_ , he would not be getting out of the engagement.

"Fine, send them up."

He turned his back, letting the clack of her heels on his floor settle his nerves. His gaze wondered out across Gotham, watching the people scurry about at the foot of Wayne Tower like ants beneath a giant. He wondered how they led their lives. How they loved. If they loved and hated loving? He wondered if his life would have been so complicated if he'd never set foot on Park Row that night. He wondered if the people living down on the floor of his city would appreciate his uncomplicated life. 

He wondered how the man now stood in the centre of his office would react if the man destined for him was Bruce Wayne and  _only_ Bruce Wayne. 

"You can sit," Bruce offered, pulling his gaze from the window and fixing it on Clark, decked in his usual civilian attire. "Unless you prefer to stand, of course."

"I'm here under orders," Clark replied, tone cool. "Perry insisted."

"I could have him fired," Bruce replied, arching an eyebrow and somehow not interested in playing pretend. "I do own the Planet after all." Clark scowled at the comment, but stepped forward anyway and sat in the offered seat, pulling out a notepad and a recorder. Bruce snorted at the sight of it. "You sure you want that on Kal?" he asked, amusement lining his features, made even stronger by the dark expression that lingered on Superman's face. He did, however, shove the recorder back into his bag.

"So you do know," he said, features twisting into disgust. 

"You knew that I knew," he offered. "You were told... in a way."

"I didn't want to believe it," the journalist muttered, gaze dropping down for a moment. 

"I didn't want to believe you thought Batman was a traitor, but here we are," Bruce retorted in a heartbeat, folding his hands over his crossed knees. 

 _That_ didn't go down well if the widening of Clark's eyes was any indication. "He told you, he -"

"I knew, Clark,  _weeks_ after we met. It wasn't Batman who uncovered you spend your spare time in tights," Bruce replied, patient. Curious to see where the conversation was going. He was more than happy to maintain he and Batman were separate entities - it was probably  _better_ to - although he wasn't sure if he would.

" _Weeks?_ " Clark hissed. " _How?_ That's not possible, I -"

"Clark," Bruce cut in, amused. "I own a large multinational conglomerate that turns over billions each year and I spend a considerable amount of time _running_ it, and you think that I can't see that Superman is Clark Kent without glasses?" He paused, drinking in the incredulous expression on the reporter's face. "You wrote an article about the Justice League. I clicked on your name and your picture is on the Planet website. I think I can recognise my own Soulmate."

There was a sudden heavy silence, filled only with Clark, who visibly bristled at the reminder of their connection, turning a deeper shade of red.

"Who have you told?" he asked, voice a little too vulnerable to sit comfortably on Bruce's chest. 

"My butler," he replied.

"And -" Kal prompted, impatient.

"And that's it," he shrugged. 

"I don't understand," Clark confessed, shaking his head. "Why didn't you tell anyone?"

A deep pang snuck its way past and dug its nails into Bruce's core at the blatant mistrust. He swallowed once, before pinning Clark in place with his coolest stare. "It was never my secret to share."

Silence lay over them: a heavy blanket pressing them into their chairs, a poison on their skin - becoming more painful with each moment - that had started to blister, a possessed thing that wouldn't be exorcised. It was thick, quick to engulf, slow to flee - Bruce hated it, but he would not break it. Batman was born for such silence: all jagged edges and desperate quiets. Eventually he turned his gaze away, letting his city greet him with glinting silver skin and a low slung sun. Gotham was beautiful today: her light casting away the shadows she so regularly wore. 

"I'm sorry." 

Bruce glanced back. 

Clark was sunken in on himself: a child, caught and tired, desperate for forgiveness. His eyes sought out Bruce's before blinking once, twice - just enough to tell the vigilante that tears begged to form there - before skating away once more. 

"I know, Kal," Bruce conceded. "But you can't possibly comprehend all you need to be sorry for. For you,  _this_ ," he gestured around him: to Gotham, to his office, to himself, and even, briefly, to the scar where his words once lay, "this was all just temper tantrum. You were unhappy and you let us know it. But unfortunately, Kal, your tantrums have the fallout of bombs." 

"I -" 

Bruce held up his hand. "Listen to me," he cut in, voice turning a touch hard. "You are a remarkable person, Clark, but you are also fiercely judgemental, terrifyingly stubborn and near violently arrogant in your own assumptions. I understand you weren't happy with the universe intervening in us, but you set us both on a path that we must now walk. It was  _you_ Kal, that created this future... that created this version of ourselves. _You_ who started the cycle of mistrust and heartbreak and misunderstandings." A pause. "Do you understand?"

"You didn't help," Clark replied, jutting out his chin. 

Bruce rolled his eyes, gesturing at the alien who had just proven his point. "Perhaps," he conceded, "but Bruce Wayne is exactly who I need him to be, who the  _world_ needs him to be. We can't have the world thinking he makes executive decisions if we still want to keep the money flowing."

"You  _do_ fund Watchtower then?"

A hollow laugh. "I fund everything Clark, I still fund everything. Even with you all clamouring over one another to declare your League compromised by me, I still funnel as much as I dare into your organisation."

Kal let out a deep, bone-weary sigh. "I  _am_ sorry," he repeated. "About before, about three years ago, when we met. I - I shouldn't have done what I did. I shouldn't have said what I said, either. I shouldn't have even been so angry about the _idea_ of you and...and B," he choked out.

"No, you shouldn't. But you did. And that's why we are where we are."

"So you -"

"I'm not dating Batman, Kal," Bruce huffed out, suddenly  _tired_. "I'm not dating _anybody_ , despite what the tabloids would suggest. My last semi-stable relationship was years ago with a woman who was never sure whether she wanted to stab me or sleep with me." A sigh. "It's complicated," he offered, although that only covered about half of their history. At least she had helped save Jason - he'd never be able to repay her for that.

"I'm sorry."

"You seem to be saying that a lot," Bruce replied, deadpan.

"I am. You must know I am," he continued, eye beseeching. Bruce only shrugged, glancing at the clock. Clark seemed to notice and he tapped his notebook, page still empty, with his pen. "How about I show you?" he eventually said. "I could write an article. Let the world see who Bruce Wayne  _really_ is. I could -"

"Absolutely not," Bruce spat, eyes immediately honing in on Clark's own, his tone harder than steel and his heart picking up a panicked rhythm. 

Clark blinked. "B-But you do  _good_ ," he insisted, brow now furrowed. "Don't you want the world to know?"

"Absolutely not," he said again, teeth clenched. 

Clark dragged a hand through his hair. "I don't understand," he finally confessed. 

Bruce turned away, gaze going again to beyond the horizon as he tried to still the tremors in his hand and the tang of adrenaline in his veins urging him to fight until his bones shattered. "I **told** you, Kal, Bruce Wayne is exactly what the world needs him to be." He turned back. "What I need him to be." He drew in a breath. "You've already fucked up large portions of my life, **don't** fuck this up too."

Clark felt a shiver run down his spine at the force behind the words. "Okay," he yielded with a nod before letting some heat seep into his words. "But why? I know now you're not who I thought you were. You're not the creep in the tabloids, you're not some uncaring one percent-er with an eye always on the bottom-line. Why does Bruce Wayne have to be what I always thought you were? Why does he have to be an airhead, a drunk, a socialite - to be someone that anybody with morals would reject as a Soulmate?" His tone was cruel, clearly smarting at the deception that caused him so much pain. "Is it because you don't think you can change your fucked up image? Or is it because you don't want to even try?"

Bruce let out a cold, hollow laugh. "Actually Kal, it's because there are very few people in this world with the sort of money I have," he began, words loaded with _rage_. "Because there are very few people who have watched their parents get gunned down in front of them. Because most people get **angry** at that sort of thing and, when they are rich and angry, they  _ **do**  _something. Because the world needs to think that I cope by getting drunk and sleeping around, rather than funnelling money into deep-space monitoring systems, high tech body armour and grappling guns. Because it's better that the world calls Brucie Wayne a joke - that way they don't look closer at my non existent social life, my injuries, my subsidiaries. Because, **Kal-El** , the world needs to think I break bones skiing or earn my bruises in sex clubs rather than chasing freaks dressed as aquatic flightless birds through Gotham's sewers." 

There was a long, pause in which the breath in Clark's throat froze, because _**no**.._. 

"Get **out** Clark," Batman finally snarled, sitting back but still _radiating_ authority. "I have a business to run, a city to protect and a software patch to finish coding for Watchtower... I don't have time to play the idiot today."

The Bat turned back to his computer, dismissing him, and _somehow,_ _someway_  Clark numbly got to his feet and fled the office. 


	13. day nine hundred and fifty nine

Wayne Manor was always beautiful in the first gasps of Summer. Still wiping the lingering sleep of spring from its eyes, the house lingered in the heady in-between season. It was eager to show its enjoyment of the winds that pulled in the tang of ozone and a faint trace of garlic from the nearby woods (that often warned of a storm the bright blue skies hid from sight) by throwing its windows open wide. The gardens too, bloomed a shade brighter, sprawling over the boundaries that once had been well maintained. Bruce had little concern upon his return to Gotham at keeping the lawn kept at right angles when the underbelly of his city's society clamoured like war-drums against his ears. He was grateful for that now, of course, when he could see tangled flowers stretching tall and wide, and the after-image of Dick cartwheeling his way towards the house, clothes askew and smeared with dirt, a half-mangled giant sunflower in his hand, clutching at what few petals had survived his son's acrobatics. His child, with a blinding smile eclipsing his face, had warmed Bruce from his cold heart out into his chest until places he didn't know he had hummed in contentment, and the grounds remained a jungle for young minds to enjoy exploration and pull on broad-rimmed hats and call themselves adventurers: bedraggled, yes, but thriving beneath a wide Gotham sky. 

Bruce could already taste the day on his tongue before he blinked open his eyes late the next morning. He had forgone patrol (instead investing his hours in coding and important paperwork for W.E.) but still his body complained. It groaned as he moved, muscles rippling beneath his skin before jarring to an abrupt and searing stop, reminding him once again that his days beneath the cowl were numbered. He pushed one hand through his hair while the other tracked south, coming to rest on the scar spanning his ribs. It was old, long since turned white before his eyes, and in fact new scars wrapped their way overtop, leaving the decision he made years ago as nothing more than another footnote in the history of his pain. He had never regretted his decision to remove the words, not that such an act erased the memory of them. He could still trace the letters and knew his fingers, after so many years, often moved of their own accord. Yet yesterday had been testing. A horrid mix of anger, retribution, satisfaction and overwhelming sadness had burned his veins, because while he still looked at Clark and saw the soft-hearted man who blushed prettily and urged him to rest and _"take some time, B, I don't want to see you hurt_ ", he had also meant what he said. The path they were on had been started by Clark, and it was a path they were now destined to walk until fate intervened again. 

He pushed back the sheets and let out a little huff of breath at the protest in his back, thumbs coming to ease the tightness there, before shuffling his way first to the bathroom and then, after pulling on a t-shirt, downstairs. 

There was clattering in the kitchen that was a little louder than usual, which suggested either Alfred was upset or distracted. If their brief, half-conversation the previous day was any indications, Bruce would bet his fortune on the latter. The Brit had furrowed his brows at the off-hand: " _Clark knows I'm Batman_ ," Bruce had thrown over his shoulder before disappearing into the cave to code. The man had clearly stewed in silence before, several hours later, emerging with a pot of tea, plate of biscuits and a tired smile: "Did you tell him he was an idiot, Master Wayne?" 

"I did."

Another smile, this one brighter and bleeding love and acceptance, then: "That's my boy."

Bruce had quirked an eye at that, smiling himself, and opened his mouth to reply but the older man had already turned and begun to retreat back up into the manor. 

The fridge door had been left open and the small TV set on the counter was on, chattering about proposed reforms to the Gotham DA's office in an effort to root out corruption, and Bruce found himself a little too distracted by it if the collision with the door was any indication. 

Bruce groaned softly, lips parted in quiet admission of yet more pain as the handle dug cruelly into a particularly tender bruise lingering from a patrol several days previously. "Ow," he muttered, rubbing his side. "A little warning would've been nice," he continued, shutting the door and finally looking up at the figure sat at his kitchen island. 

And _froze_. 

He was sure his mouth was a little agape, his lip drooping, while his heart had picked up a jump rope and begun bouncing around inside his chest. The organ flew into his throat before plummeting down into his stomach, tugging violently at any tissue it could find, giving him the sudden and overpowering urge to dry-heave.

"Hi." There was something wrong with his voice - it was too breathy and a little pitchy too. The words strained against the insides of his mouth, eager, but then fell flat: lead weights hanging on the edge of his tongue, mocking him with silence.

"Hey Bruce," Dick replied, awkward, spoon filled with milk and cereal paused halfway to his lips, eyes serious and calm. "You look terrible," he added, taking a bite. 

"You're here," the billionaire managed to choke out, taking the opportunity to assess his son for injuries. Blüdhaven was not kind to police officers and, despite a considerably more lax media focus in recent years, Dick was still his son - and the world knew it. Luckily Nightwing had been trained enough to save himself from those who sought to ransom him back to his billionaire guardian. There was, however, a bruise on the side of his son's cheek, far enough below his eye for Bruce to know he'd dodged the punch but had been taking on enough assailants that a dodge hadn't been enough to prevent injury. Dick caught the focus of his attention and shrugged. 

"You're worse," he said, before pausing and adding.  "Alfred called us."

Ah, well that sounded distinctly like - 

_Wait._

_"Us_?!"

Dick quirked a lip and offered a one-shoulder shrug, pushing the spoon into his mouth and jerking his head to the other figure Bruce hadn't noticed, who was slouched in his chair, feet on the table and mug of coffee teetering dangerously in his hand, soft snores punctuating his breaths. An after image of years ago, with two boys insisting they stay up until daybreak and watch the sun rise over their city, tumbling into sleep before the first rays had even cracked the horizon, flickered behind Bruce's eyes. 

"Jason," Bruce breathed out like a prayer, eyes dragging back and forth between his sons before shaking his head as though to clear his thoughts. "I - _how..._ why..." He swallowed thickly. "Alfred?"

Dick smiled gently, eyes suddenly dropping down to his cereal while he pushed the remnants around with his spoon. "He called, late last night...or early this morning, I'm not sure. He called to say that the Batman's identity had been exposed. That Superman knew who you were, beneath the cowl," he began slowly. "He was worried. About you and about us. If Superman knew you then -"

"He might connect the dots and discover you, too," Bruce finished, panic seeping into his bones because  _he hadn't even considered that_.

Dick glanced up. "Alfred just wanted to warn us, to not panic if we had a visitor..." There was a pregnant pause. "He also said you could, uh, do with family around, too." Dick's expression faltered for a moment. "We can go if this is -"

"No," Bruce spluttered, stepping forward before catching himself. "No, please." He swallowed again, attempting to ease the faltering tone breaking his speech. "Please don't leave." The billionaire drew in a deep breath. "I just didn't think you'd be - _ah,_ we, parted on bad terms. I thought -"

"That we were never going to come back?" Dick finished, eyebrow creeping north. He shrugged again. "We're family Bruce, _always_. We were always going to come home _eventually_."

The billionaire's heart was racing in his chest, one beat blurring into the next until it felt like a hummingbird was thrumming inside him. A galloping, desperate, eager thud running on a hope that had begun to take root beneath his ribs. "Of course," he nodded, voice soft and vulnerable, gaze going back towards Jason. 

"He's had a long morning," Dick excused with a smile. 

"He's not hurt is he?" Bruce asked, looking for injuries beneath the flop of hair and the baggy jumper. 

Dick laughed, rolling his eyes and lightening the mood in an instant, something familiar and mischievous lingering there. "Ah, _no_. Not that kind of morning." The young man hesitated, clearly reigning in his laughter. "When we arrived, Alfred explained the situation to us in a bit more detail - about you and Superman being _you-and-Superman,_ and about the monumental calamity that is your..." he paused. "Honestly, I don't know _what_ you two are," he huffed, brow furrowing quickly before a smile quickly replaced it. "We were upset about it, obviously, about Superman's... _prejudice_. But you know Jason. He doesn't exactly, ah, _follow orders_. He took offence to Superman's reaction and well, he went to see Clark." At Bruce's sudden and shocked expression, Dick winced, clearly catching on to his alarm. "Alfred told us who he was, so we could be prepared for anything. I mean, if you're expecting an alien in tights then a reporter in glances can kinda slip through the cracks."

Bruce groaned softly, sitting down with a thud on the barstool pushed up against their breakfast bar. "What happened?"

"Well, uh, Jason may have - _hypothetically_ \- broken into the cave, stolen a Kryptonite ring, tracked Clark down, walked into the Daily Planet offices, marched over to Clark's desk, punched Clark in the face, and then stormed out again." 

 _Horror_. "He didn't."

"Of course I did," a new voice chimed in, laden with sleep. "The fucker deserved it."

Jason blinked up at Bruce from beneath his lashes, a slow and devious sort of smile creeping across his face. He seemed relaxed and more than a little smug, a combination that both amused Bruce and took him back years to when they stood at the end of the manor staircase and shouted at each other before sharing ice-cream and a movie in apology. It was jarring but also exceedingly welcome after the calamity of recent months.

"The only people allowed to fuck you up are _us_ ," Jason snorted, jabbing a thumb into his own chest, "and Alfred." His grin then changed into a feral sort of thing. "It was more fun than I expected."

"Punching my _soulmate_ or punching _Superman_?" Bruce clarified dryly, voice barely concealing the amusement and joy at his son being so damn _defensive_ of him, a hope that this,  _this_ could be a fresh start, a new chapter in their lives.

"Both," Jason said. "At first I thought: _'what a_ **shitass** ', then I thought: ' _honestly Bruce, whatever he said or did couldn't have been worse than what I've done, and you forgave me_ '."

"Then...?"

"Oh no, that's the end, I just wanted to punch him in the face."

"Oh my God," Dick snorted in the background.

"Although," Jason continued, standing and setting his mug down on the counter before rooting through his pocket and pulling out a packet of cigarettes. "I haven't picked a pretty girl over you before.  _And_ I haven't fallen in love with Batman either," he added, lighting up and taking a drag, ignoring the glare from Bruce at his actions. "So I guess I'm back to my first thought again. Superman is a **_shitass_**."

The kitchen fell silent, each of the three men just  _looking_ at one another. Then:

"Master Jason, while it is most wonderful to have you back, it is decidedly less wonderful living inside a bonfire," came Alfred's voice from the pantry. The older man walked in, a deliberate and long look at the cigarette dangling from between Jason's fingers and remained unmoving until the former Robin stubbed it out on the work-top. "Thank you," he said with a smile, which caused Jason to grimace back. Dick barked out a laugh and even Bruce grinned. "And look at that," Alfred said. "Six months without a smile and ten minutes with you boys and he's beaming like a pageant queen." The Brit clapped his hands together. "And that, gentlemen, is cause for celebratory pancakes." 

"I've eaten," Jason chimed in. 

"Coffee and half a cigarette is  _not_ breakfast," Alfred replied, steamrolling over the excuse in an instant. "Master Bruce is on pancake duty, Master Dick can squeeze the orange juice and _you_ , Master Jason can dice the fruit for our fruit salad."

"What are you doing?" Jason asked, watching as Alfred sat, unfolded the Gotham Gazette and settled in to read. 

The butler looked up from over his reading glasses and smiled. "I'm supervising," he replied.

And that was that. 

It was silted. Of course it was. It had been years since the four of them had occupied the same space, let alone shared a meal or anything particularly personal. Yet the longer the boys stayed, the more the warmth in Bruce's chest began to spread and the more he trusted their promise that: "We'll be better at keeping in touch, this time," like the past was nothing more than forgetfulness and missed messages. Not that Bruce cared. If it wrote over his mistakes and brought his sons back into his orbit, he'd take  _any_ way they intended to move beyond the disaster that had been Jason's death.

It was the evening, though, when the day threw Bruce another emotional curveball. Jason, claiming fatigue and probably a little sour at Alfred continually confiscating his cigarettes had retreated to his room an hour previously, while Dick had curled up in front of the fire under a blanket with a pile of papers he had to finish for work. Bruce had joined him, deciding to finish up a few things for Fox while Alfred sat reading in the old wingback armchair, enjoying a novel from what appeared to be the regency era.

The chime of the doorbell was unexpected, but Bruce didn't need superpowers to know who it would be. He sighed, shaking his head at the offer of Dick to get the door and ignoring the worried glance from Alfred, before making his way into the entrance hall. A flick of the lock and:

"Bruce," Clark greeted, eyes nervously flitting around, never settling on anything for too long. 

The older man heaved out a breath before stepping to the side and letting the Kryptonian in. As much as he might want to, leaving Clark on the doorstep was neither productive nor positive for either of their civilian identities. "What are you doing here Kal?" Bruce asked, shutting the door and taking a step back, arms immediately crossing themselves in front of his chest.

Clark winced, hands wringing. He looked terrible. Between his pale complexion, general expression and the rumpled nature of his appearance, it looked like he'd spent most of his time since their meeting worrying his hair and clenching his shirt up inside a fist. "I wanted to talk," he confessed quietly. 

"We have talked," Bruce countered, not giving an inch. 

"I'd like to talk more," Clark shot back just as quickly. "Ten minutes?" he asked, hands suddenly spread wide as though in surrender.

"You alright Bruce?" Dick's voice said, carrying through the hall and making the billionaire turn. It was steely and again a sense of gratitude bloomed inside him at the presence of his eldest.

"I'm alright, thanks Dick," he replied kindly. "It's okay," he added with a nod when, unconvinced, Dick turned to glare at Clark.

"My brother and I have access to more Kryptonite than the ring that knocked you on your ass earlier, alien," he said, tone flat and lethal. 

"Dick -"

"Don't make us use it," he finished. 

"Master Dick," Alfred said, attempting at being rebuking, but with amusement and pride lacing his tone, it was doomed from the beginning. He appeared in the doorway, hands folded in front of him. "I quite think your father and Mister Kent need a moment." 

"Dick, I'm fine, thank you," Bruce said warmly. "Finish your paperwork," he urged. 

The young man narrowed his eyes before turning on his heel and disappearing from view. Alfred chuckled. "I'll keep Master Dick and Master Jason out of the way for a little while," he promised before he too vanished from sight.

Bruce turned back to Clark, a little amused at the blatant _shock_ on his face. "Ten minutes," he agreed, jerking his head towards the small, servants kitchen that was only ever used as a pantry now-a-days. 

"Father?" Clark asked after falling into step beside him. 

"Yes," Bruce replied.

"Dick?" he asked, eyebrow quirked, a question there.

"Richard," he clarified.

"Ah."

"Sit," Bruce ordered, turning to the fridge and pulling out two beers, because this was going to need more than a cup of tea. He pushed one across the table to Clark, who thanked him with a nod, before taking a seat himself. 

"He said brother," Clark began. 

"Jason," Bruce clarified.

"You didn't mention them."

"We lost Jason a few years ago. I didn't react well and I pushed Dick away. When we got Jason back, I just - I never rebuilt the bridge," he explained.

"Lost?" Clark murmured, confusion lacing his tone. 

"Jason died, Kal."

"But -"

Bruce croaked out a laugh. "There's more mystery in this world than you, Kal," he huffed, taking a sip.

"I'm sorry," Clark muttered. 

Bruce chuckled. "Clark, stop. I don't need you to say you're sorry a hundred times. No more apologies."

"I'm -" His teeth slammed together with an audible clack and his blushed a deep red. Instead he shrugged and took a drink of his beer. "I'm still in love with you, you know that right," he offered after a moment.

"I had my suspicions," he said, tone slow and cautious.

"World's Greatest Detective," Kal mumbled. "And I meant what I said on the rooftop. When I met Batman, everything just...  _clicked_." He paused. "Maybe Batman's my Soulmate."

Bruce frowned. "You know it doesn't work like that, Kal."

"I know," he huffed, annoyed, before his features softened, tone transforming into something desperate and sad. "But - B, he's _you_. You know that. Brucie isn't _you_ , underneath, right? Can you really hate me? For falling in love with the real you, rather than the facade?" Clark suddenly looked so _young_ as he glanced up at Bruce from beneath his lashes.

"I don't hate you Kal," Bruce countered, swallowing thickly. "I never hated you, not really." He paused. "But look at this from my point of view. You told me about what your mother said, about your Soulmate being the first person you saved. Did you ever stop to consider  _why_ they needed saving in the first place?"

"I -" Clark cut himself off, confused again,

"Look at my life," Bruce continued. "My parents are dead. Their murder was never avenged. I spent years in the bowels of a mountain learning how to be more than a man. I've been shot, stabbed, spat at, poisoned, burned and beaten. I've lost a son and I've ostracised another. I've had barely one successful relationship and I avoid personal connection. I've been used and objectified and I've let it happen, because I knew that it was for the good of the mission. The mission is all I've really known. I let myself have the fairytale, the myth of being saved, because I was convinced it would never be. Then there it was, then it was gone. And I learnt that my life must be the mission. Always the mission. I'm beyond saving now Clark and I've accepted that. But wouldn't you be just as angry as I, to be offered salvation only to be told you don't deserve it?" 

There was a long, heavy, loaded silence, filled only with Bruce taking a drink.

"Can I see?" Clark finally whispered, glancing down towards his ribs. 

Bruce paused, face moving from impassive to incredulous. "There's nothing there, Clark," he replied, tone slow. 

"Noth-" The alien cut himself off, horror and panic bleeding into his features. "You burnt them off," he remembered.

"I burnt them off," Bruce affirmed.

"I'm -" he stopped, features turning determined. "I want to make this right."

Bruce scowled. "You know it doesn't work like that, Kal," he echoed.

"I love you," Clark said, as though that solved everything. "I love the stupid way you scowl at Barry and the way you try not to roll your eyes when one of us suggests something stupid. I love the way your mind works, the way you are always fifteen steps ahead but never make us feel small - unless we're being idiots and we deserve it," he laughed quickly. "I love the way you always think of others before yourself. I love the way you are kind and generous and know the value of little things. I love your smile - both the little one you used to give me and the big sunny one that happens when you just can't catch yourself in time. I love your wit and your stupid puns and the way you drop jokes when I'm down. I love the way you're dedicated to good and to helping people, but I hate the way you don't take enough care of yourself. You deserve the world B, and you deserve better than me, I know that. I know I've fucked up and said and done things I can't take back. I know that I'm no where near good enough for you. But I want to try and be better. I want to make sure you know every day that your soul is so beautiful it's blinding. I want to spend my life making it up to you B. I want to love you for the rest of my days. I  _will_ love you for the rest of my days. But I'd love it if you let me love you." 

"Clark," Bruce exhaled in one long breath.

"Why not?"

"We're walking different paths," the billionaire. "Maybe in another universe, in another lifetime, but I don't think it's possible in this one."

"Why. Not." Clark breathed, hand tentatively reaching forward to rest on Bruce's. "Why can't I just change paths?"

"Why would you want to?"

"Why would I not?" he retorted. "I love you. I have since I first landed on that Gotham roof years ago. It just took a little time for my head to get around it."

"There's a lot of history that can't just be forgotten, Kal."

There were tears beading in the corner of his eyes but he was being valiant in not letting them fall. "I'm not -" he huffed. "Trial run," he offered. 

Bruce frowned, ignoring the fact he hadn't yet pulled back his hand and instead met the inquiring gaze of the Kryptonian. "What?"

"We start over, completely, and we rebuild everything. Start as strangers and see if we can be friends again. You make the decision. If yes, then," he broke off, face expressing every hope he had, "and if no, then we stay friends. I'll never bring any of this up again and we'll just be two guys who hang out and watch a football game every now and again."

"We tried that before," Bruce murmured, soft. 

"Bruce -"

"What if I said no, right now. That we would only ever be friends, at the most. Would you accept that?"

"Yes -"

"Then I -"

"If you can look me in the eyes and tell me that deep down you don't love me," the alien finished.

Bruce shook his head, incredulous, and let out a laugh at the sheer stubbornness of his Soulmate. "I don't _want_ to love you and I don't want you to love me either," he finally offered.

"B -" 

"This isn't healthy Kal," he murmured, finally pulling his hand away, missing the warmth instantly. 

"I know," Clark conceded. "I just - I wanted to do the right thing, to be good, but every-time I thought I could, something got in the way. I was so jealous about you and Arthur and then you and, well,  _yourself_ that I never really let myself understand your side. I just -" he trailed off. "I didn't understand why I loved you so much."

Bruce was left with the image of his soulmate. His idiot, morally superior, frightened, desperate, jealous, good-hearted, judgemental, prejudiced, loving idiot. 

But even still, **his**  idiot.

After all, if there was nothing, he still wouldn't be this affected.

"I don't know where this leaves us Kal."

The Kryptonian shrugged. "It leaves us where you want to leave us B," he replied, finishing his drink and standing. "It's your decision." He paused, back to Bruce. "But maybe this time you don't have to put the mission first."

And with that he was gone, leaving Bruce alone, nursing a half-drunk beer in the dying rays of a summer day, a coldness in his stomach and a warmth spread across his ribs where his words once sat.


	14. day nine hundred and eighty six

"Alfred mentioned you were out here," Dick murmured as he sat down beside him, a blanket draped over his shoulders and a mug of tea in his hands. "I must say brooding under the stars is a different look for you than brooding on a rooftop," he smiled. "Although not by much."

The maze on the grounds of Wayne Manor was not a place he had frequented more than five times since the death of his family, it too haunted by his memories of youth. But sitting in the dusk, away from the lights of the city and the lights of his home, he didn't see after images of his parents, nor of himself, but itself nothing more than trees and shrubbery. 

"Still thinking?" Dick continued. A hum was the only reply. "Have you seen Clark?"

"No," Bruce grunted, eyes never wavering from the stars peaking out beneath orange tinted clouds. "He's _giving me space_ ," he huffed, like the notion was both amusing and annoying.

Dick hummed in reply, taking a sip. "You probably need it."

"Yes," the billionaire laughed. "And no." A pause. "I don't know."

"It's okay to not know what you want, Bruce," Dick said, voice quieter than a whisper. "It's okay to be angry. It's okay to not be angry, too."

"I know," he murmured, reaching out a hand to settle it on Dick's shoulder. "Although I'm wondering when you got so wise."

"Someone in the family has to follow Alfred." They shared a chuckle then. 

There was silence for a few moments, both content to share the same space, before Bruce slumped deeper into the bench, a single decision pinning him down with the weight of a thousand thoughts. Dick said nothing, only leaned into his adopted father until their shoulders touched, a warm spread down their sides and a silent acknowledgement of everything that could and had gone wrong.

"Do you love him?" Dick breathed, keeping his gaze to the sky. 

A sigh. "I could," he confessed, breath like a prayer. "It would be so easy to."

"Do you want to love him?"

And wasn't that the question, Bruce thought. His future all hinged on six words and a notion that was almost comical in its simplicity. What did he want?

The breeze had turned chilled, a heaviness and tang to it that tasted of the sea. It blew over him and through him, dipping his bones in fog. It had been mild, for a Gotham summer day, but with the sun's departure, it had turned sour quickly until remnants of early spring - or foreshadowing of late autumn - crept into the wind. It gave him focus, though, as it pushed at his body with chilled, roaming fingers, and dragged itself through his hair, kissing his features with bitter cool as it went. Still, it felt more pleasant than the turmoil in his chest.

His heart had gone to war with his head. It bore arms and rebelled against logic, against understanding, against basic common sense, with all the passion in his soul and all the force of a cannon. His head, clinical and detached, looked at his heart in disgust. He knew, after all, that a few months apart had not changed Kal and deep down he still possessed the same righteous fury and wrathful judgement that had laid the first stone in their winding, rocky path. But, while he knew the logic behind it all, he also knew his heart didn't care. His heart wanted to fall and fall and keep on falling. It wanted to savour the swooping in his stomach and the sweaty tang of his palms. His heart wanted everything from the Kryptonian. It wanted love and life and companionship. His heart wanted Clark. 

But his head didn't.

"I want to love the idea of him," Bruce finally breathed out. "I want to love my Soulmate." He huffed out a sigh. "I just don't think I want to love _Clark Kent_..."

Dick offered a quiet smile. "Yet?" he asked tentatively. 

Bruce smiled in return. "Yet," he agreed before shrugging. "But I don't know where yet begins and ends."

"Do you have to?" Dick countered. "Do you have to know anything more than what you feel?"

A ghost of a laugh. "Apparently not," he murmured. "You know, some days I forget why I was ever so angry at Clark," he began. "Some days I sit and  _hate_ myself for being so stubborn, for holding him accountable when the lie he fell for was one I've spent years crafting, perfecting. Then I get annoyed at letting him off so easily. I remind myself he should have known better, should have at least taken a moment to consider that maybe the world didn't hate him and Bruce Wayne was more than glossy magazine covers and an easy lay." He heaved in a breath. "Some days I'm angry for justifying that, him, his actions - after all, who has the right to tell me I live my life incorrectly?" A pause. "Some days I'm so twisted up inside I can't tell up from down nor love from hate." He dropped his gaze to his hands. "I think that's what angers me the most - that he makes me so confused, that he makes me _feel_ so much. It all feels like -"

"Weakness," Dick finished for him.

"Weakness," Bruce agreed.

"I don't think loving makes you weak," Dick offered. "In a way, I think it makes you stronger. I mean, if you have nothing to fight for, then what's the point?" He shook his head before offering a shrug. "I just - I'm not saying do or don't and I'm not saying you need to work this out now or even a few months from now, but I am saying that don't push someone you love - or could love - away because you don't like feeling vulnerable."

Bruce glanced over then, a small, proud smile on his lips. "Smart boy," he said, warmth layering his tone. 

"Duh," he offered before standing. "I'm gonna head in," he added, "don't be too long."

"I won't."

His hand had drifted to rest at his side, overlaying the place where Clark's words had once been. When Bruce was younger, innocent of the cruelty in the world, he'd let himself fantasise. He'd let his parents fantasise about the brave, selfless person who would rescue him, who would protect him and tell him he was safe, that nothing was going to hurt him. His parents had been so thrilled, weaving tales of the remarkable person who was bound to him for all eternity. His saviour. 

" _Perhaps he's crossing an ocean of stars to find you_ ," his mother had said once as he peered through his telescope one cold but clear night. " _Perhaps you can save him too_ ," she continued, a modern woman who was determined that her son was to be like her: the star of his own story.

" _Yes mother,_ " he'd laughed, rolling his eyes, but letting something deep-rooted and satisfactory settled behind his ribs at his mother's reassurance. It was all innocent, simple and, at its core, beautiful - beautiful in the way that made old men weep without pride or fear or stigma.

" _Don't worry, I've got you. You're safe; nothing's going to hurt you now_."

"This world isn't built on perfection," he whispered, voice drifting away on the breeze. "It's messy and complicated. I suppose we are too Kal, don't you think? Messy and complicated."

A distant crack on the horizon, a few seconds, then:

"Yes," Clark replied tentatively, hovering just above the ground so his bare feet weren't touching the damp grass.

Bruce took a moment to drink him in: the casual t-shirt and sweats, the ruffled hair, the cautiously optimistic expression. "Even if I said yes, there are mountains of stipulations, Kal. Bruce Wayne cannot change. He must be the man the world perceives him to be: fickle and disinterested. While I wear the cowl, he is as unyielding as stone. Could you stand by and watch as he let models slip their hands beneath his shirt? As he pressed kisses to the corner of mouths? As he flirted and gambled and proclaimed loudly to the heavens that he is unattached?"

Clark barely hesitated. "Yes," he replied. "I could. I'd know it wouldn't be real."

"It would look real," Bruce countered, "and it would be cruel to make you watch -"

"I'd watch anyway -"

"Knowing," Bruce continued with a raised brow, "that I was coming home to you."

"Bruce," Clark muttered, "I'm not asking you to change."

"I know. But the life you want, Clark - the life that deep down,  _I_ want - can't exist. We'd be settling for whatever we could snatch for ourselves. We'd always be in the shadows, taking half-chances and resenting each other for wearing capes. The mission comes first. For both of us."

Clark finally let himself drop to the ground, toes spreading wide in the grass. "What if it didn't? For me," he clarified. And Clark, who prized Superman, helping people, above almost everything, added: "What if I stopped being Superman?"

While the alien before him hadn't spoken above barely a whisper, it felt like he'd screamed. The garden was suddenly too big and yet not big enough for an announcement of that magnitude. "Clark -" Bruce began, stunned at the mere _suggestion_. 

"The day you decide to hang up the cape," Clark continued, unfazed, "I'll hang up mine. That way there's no resentment, no flying off to save the world, no putting anything other than ourselves first. We can just be us."

"You can't mean that..."

"I've given a lot to this world, Bruce," he replied, oozing fatigue and sadness. "I'm more than Superman. Clark Kent decided to put on the suit and Clark Kent can decide when to take it off. Diana and the League are more than capable to protecting Earth without me - without _us_."

Bruce sucked in a sharp and biting breath. "That day, Clark, it might not come. This is all hypothetical. A hundred things could happen. I could die in the suit. I've come close before. It's not impossible. I might just keep fighting until my bones are nothing more than dust."

Clark took a moment before gritting his teeth and nodding stiffly. "Okay."

"Okay?" the billionaire countered, incredulous.

"I'm not going to say I'll be there to always get you out of trouble, Bruce, because you'd hate that. That's not who you are. I trust you know your limits and you know what Batman is capable of. Until then, I'll wait."

Bruce frowned. "You'll wait. For a chance? A one in a million chance that might never come."

"Yes."

He was serious. His expression was the one that regularly shone out from television screens and cereal packets. It was a no nonsense, _I'm-the-saviour-of-this-planet_ kind of look that made Bruce sure down to his bones that Clark was one hundred percent decided on this course of action. And nothing Bruce said would change that.

"Friends then?" Clark added, jerking one shoulder up in a half shrug that screamed of uncertainty. "For the foreseeable."

The black-haired man licked his lips, exhaled heavily and shook his head once, shocked into silence at the man before him. He'd expected pleading. He'd expected convincing. He'd expected Clark to call it quits, tell him waiting for a future that might never come wasn't worth it.

But he hadn't. 

"The Gotham Knights are playing the Metropolis Meteors next weekend. The boys and I were going to watch the game. Bring popcorn."

A ghost of a smile. 

"Only if you promise not to eat it all."

"My house, my rules, Kent," Bruce returned, turning on his heel and letting the tension of the past few years drain from his soul.

"I wouldn't have it any other way," Clark called out in reply before a shift in the air and a distinct crack echoed around them, signalling his departure.

Alfred and Dick were waiting in the kitchen when he returned, eyebrows raised, questions on their lips.

"Friends," he said, nodding once. "We're going to try and be friends."

Dick nodded, offered nothing but a smile and disappeared into the house.

"Friends, Master Wayne?" Alfred queried, a little too incredulous.  

"Until our retirement, then, we'll see, I suppose," Bruce replied, aiming for nonchalant but falling far too short.

Alfred scoffed. "I didn't know either of you were expecting to retire, Master Wayne."

A half laugh. "Well, I'm not Alfred. He wants to wait anyway."

"Wait for an opportunity in a life you may never live?"

"Yeah."

"Well," the butler murmured quietly, "I must say it is finally nice to see just how much he loves you, Master Wayne." A pause. "Although it would have been much nicer three years ago."

Bruce rolled his eyes and dropped a kiss on his mentor's forehead, much to the Brit's surprise. "I'm okay Alfred. This? This is all okay," he smiled gently. "Everything is going to be just fine."


	15. day three thousand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd have to thank every single one of you incredible, lovely people who have been so unwavering and enthusiastic in your support for this fic. Reading your comments has been incredible and we can only send back all of the love you have sent to us with lots of interest. 
> 
> Side note: I myself was incredibly nervous at venturing into this pairing. But you all have been wonderful. So, just, thank you so very much and much love to all of you,
> 
> -R.
> 
> P.S. I do hope you all enjoy this ending. There were several endings written, but this felt the most satisfying.

There wasn't a cell in Bruce's body that didn't burn. Every fibre, every tendon, every ground down joint and grating socket, was sandpaper under his skin.

Pain had been an old friend, but she was a mistress now.

His callouses had bloomed, stretching and merging, holding hands across his palms, burrowing deep and blistering just badly enough that three had already burst against the hard metal of the cane he leant so heavily upon. The thick tang of metal dancing with his tonsils and clawing at his tongue made already made him want to dry-heave, but the empty hollowness in his stomach told him nothing but bile would emerge if he did. There had been no time to eat much, before. 

Before, when he'd been hooked up to IV's again, flushing more poisons from his system, a worried Alfred lingering over his shoulder and his boys - all of them - perched to one side with expressions that _screamed_ of concern. The Joker had been cruel, his gas permeating Gotham in a fog and left an already wounded Bat scrambling for safety. 

He'd won, in the end, but even he wondered at what cost. 

There was little sympathy, after.  

Clark had stopped by when papers ran news of Bruce's apparent sporting accident, but even he had been shocked at the extent of the damage. He'd rotated with his family, playing nursemaid and ignoring the dripping vitriol that slipped from the billionaire's lips at the feeling of vulnerability, at the shake in his hands and the bone-deep ache in his soul. He'd not commented on anything, until he learned Bruce intended to be back in society much faster than his body could handle.

He'd been relocating his shoulder - he'd moved too quick and he'd not been ready, the stairs had evaded him underfoot - when the cave alarms had chimed, announcing Clark's arrival. 

There was a moment before: "You cannot seriously be considering attending this thing," the reporter sighed, incredulous, and even reaching intimidating in the dark, black suit he'd donned for the gala.

"Bruce Wayne had a minor skiing accident," Bruce replied, deadpan, "and would have been cleared by now."

"Bruce Wayne is an idiot," Clark retorted quietly, inching forward before casting his eyes over the man. "You still have five broken ribs."

"I know."

"You're lucky your lung wasn't punctured."

"I know."

"And your ankle is still sprained."

"Funnily enough, I'd noticed that too."

Clark pursed his lips. "You're a stubborn fool."

"In other news: water, wet," Dick chimed in, barely glancing up from the computer. "You haven't even got to the poisons still running through his bloodstream."

Bruce hissed, turning on his son. "Snitch," he accused, glaring when Dick only shrugged, smirking a little in reply.

"The new tests showed poison?" Clark had hissed, eyes going wide. "Absolutely not, this is ridiculous. You should be in bed."

"No," Bruce retorted, standing and ignoring the flair of pain carving its way up his leg.

"Bruce -"

"No."

"This is -"

"Are we going to have to have a discussion about the meaning of the word no?" he asked, letting an eyebrow jump up into his hairline.

Clark scowled. "Ass."

And that had been that. Clark had left, still unimpressed at Bruce's life choices and the billionaire had gingerly shuffled into the back of a limo, ignoring the writhing pit that was his stomach which still, after six days, could take nothing more than thin, watery soup and soft, half mashed banana.

He hurt in ways he'd not hurt since Bane put a knee into his back; since the Court of Owls left him, brainless and bleeding in their maze of hell; since he'd writhed under an icy sun further from Gotham than he'd ever been before. 

But still he pulled on the mask,  _hard._

The Gala was important - weren't they all - but unlike many others, there was little way for Bruce to avoid attendance. Fox had been clear, and brutal, in his explanation: stock was plummeting and maintaining the Bat, the League and all other W.E. projects were conditional upon profit, upon healthy growth. The board wanted Wayne charm, wanted  _his presence_ apparently, like he was a pampered cat brought out to be petted by others.

And petted he was.

The hall dripped with opulence. Gold and diamonds and pearls hanging from necks and ears and fingers glinted beneath candlelight. Outrageous fashion framed by illegal fur and scale skin purses. The bright red lipstick of a matriarch, like blood on a canvas. The tight curls of an up-and-coming, wet behind the ears and trying too hard, wearing the wrong suit, the wrong tie, but still slipping into conversation like he _belonged_. But between the gaps, slipping in and out of sight, balance. The lanyards looped over rented tuxes, pens jutting from pockets, recorder tucked just out of sight: reporters so out-of-place among the one percenters but holding their own, pushing back against the too wealthy and letting smiles pull at their lips when their targets squirmed about positive social outreach, conservation and animal rights. It was a dance that Bruce had been practicing his entire life. His shoes, squeaking against the newly polished marble floor - too white, too bright, too unblemished - and cane echoing out faint taps felt both out of place and right at home.

He had barely enough flesh to keep himself knitted together and it apparently showed. He bore the sympathy from his peers, biting down at the rising sense of frustration at their pandering. As though they knew what it felt like to be poisoned by a lunatic. He bore the fake smiles and returned them with one of his own, parroting lines about being distracted by beautiful people on ski slopes and his cane being, in part, a fashion statement. He was insipid and crass and shallow. 

He was everything he was expected to be. 

He saw Hal Jordan pass by him an hour in, face pulled into a scowl at his actions, and Bruce let himself feel amusement at the man's continued ignorance of his double life. At the League's ignorance. Clark, it turned out, was as committed to maintaining Bruce's identity as the billionaire was himself. In the past five years, the Kryptonian had even managed to save it, reaching him just before the cowl was wrenched from his face not once but twice.

He'd punched the perpetrators for good measure too. They'd been pulling drywall from their muscle tissues for weeks.  

"You look like death," Clark muttered, sidling up to him and giving him the once over. "And I can hear your ribs scraping against one another from across the room."

Bruce huffed out a laugh. "I'm sorry my injuries are distracting you."

Clark only offered an unimpressed look in reply. "You should tell them to stop grabbing at you," he continued after a moment. "Your Ukrainian friend nearly dislocated your elbow."

"She's enthusiastic."

"She's going to enthusiastically separate your joints if you're not careful."

"I've got this," Bruce replied with a heavy breath, ignoring the flash of hot pain in his chest at the motion.

Clark rolled his eyes and offered only a soul-suffering sigh in return before falling into silence and letting his gaze wander out towards the dance floor. 

"Don't worry," the man added after a moment.

"I'm not," he returned. 

Bruce chuckled lightly, shifting his weight with a hiss and trying to ignore the way his hands screamed as the cane pushed hard at his swollen palms. "Yes you are."

A half smile. "Alright, I am. I'd ask for you to let me help but..." he trailed off, distracted by tracking the movement of two board members, models on their arms, who were all clearly eager to engage in the W.E. magnate.

"You can help with them," Bruce snorted, off hand and gritting his teeth a little in pain.

A laugh. Features turned bright with humour and Bruce's heart swooped at the sight. "Don't worry, I've got you," he smiled, amused, his tone teasing and kind. "You're safe," he added, "nothing's going to hurt you now."

Bruce didn't get chance to react because there were board members pushing their way forwards, talking too loudly and letting the women drag their hands down his front until Clark jumped in, oozing fake nerves and pushing up his glasses. 

"I'm sorry gentlemen, but I - ah, this is very embarrassing, sirs, ma'am, well I was interviewing Mister Wayne, here and well, golly if my editor doesn't get information on your latest drug rehabilitation programme from the man himself, well then I'll be out of a job..." he ended with a chuckle, all Kansas charm and innocence. 

The men all laughed, wine glasses tilting in their hands, flushed faces accepting the dismissal. They laughed, winked and eventually walked off, tossing promises to Bruce of talking later, taking their dates with them. They seemed pleased, but then again they'd wanted him there to speak with press, to make W.E. (and the board) look good. To look investment worthy. To look like good partners. They weren't going to interfere.

Clark met Bruce's gaze and shrugged, like it was nothing. Like he turning invasive upper-class assholes around was just another day at the office. Like giving him a moment to himself wasn't newsworthy and had happened before.

Like Brucie Wayne was worthy of defence.  

The journalist had changed in the past five years and Bruce took the moment to simply observe his companion beside him, ignoring the unvoiced questions when Clark met his eyes. He tracked the grey that had begun to pepper the black hair, threading in and out of view, tracking amongst the locks tastefully and making him look distinguished. It curled in places, in the adorable way it did sometimes and there was an itch in the billionaire's hand that had nothing to do with healing and everything to do with the desire to run his fingers through his Soulmate's hair. Bruce had seen Clark's hair rumpled, wind-swept and freshly awoken, and all of them triumphed the slicked back neatness of his formal wear. Bruce wanted to mess it up. He wanted to see _Clark_ not the reporter stood before him.

His eyes, still the same bright, baby blue that drew in the innocent and promised them salvation - the same enduring certainty bleeding through the irises - were encircled by crows-feet. A hint of the age that was beginning to creep up on Clark. The age that had already pinned Bruce to the wall by his neck was offering a gentle embrace to the alien. The Man-of-Steel was still broad, still powerfully built and packed muscle, but there was a softness to his frame. A blurred edge that made him appear gentle and huggable, a notion Bruce had found increasingly attractive over the years they'd spent building a universe-defining friendship.

A friendship that had saved planets and ended conflict. That had captured the attention of media and moguls and meta-humans, but was neither explained nor understood by any of them. A friendship that had been painstakingly built on respect, boundaries and patience.

A friendship that had been built on love.

Because, ultimately, that's where they were now. 

Where they always had the potential to be.

Where Bruce wanted them to be.  

It didn't take much thought for Bruce to reach out and hook their little fingers together. A small, simple thing: Bruce felt six again, with grazed knees and a schoolboy crush, writing notes to pass in class asking whether Clark wanted to be his boyfriend.   

The man visibly stalled from fiddling with his recorder, eyes immediately dropping to the sight. He looked equally young and unsure, and Bruce didn't hesitate then to entwine their fingers. 

"We're holding hands," Clark said dumbly.

"Yes."

"... _Why_ are we holding hands?"

"I'm tired," Bruce breathed, squeezing once, tight, "and I'm old, and you, Clark Kent, are the love of my life."

Clark's smile was tentative, right up until it was blinding. Then it eclipsed everything. It burnt through the pain and the aches and it settled in his bones. He felt calm and warm and, dare he say it, complete.

" _Bruce._ " It was reverence, it was disbelief, it was hope, it was  _everything_ : a declaration, a promise, a life-long wait finally coming to an end. There were tears in his eyes, there were tears making paths down his cheeks and Bruce could feel the matching set running down the bridge of his nose.

"Worth the wait?" he asked, taking a step closer and letting himself  _fall_.

"Worth every second."

Three weeks later the headlines of every world paper were crying out in horror, desperate and lamenting over the loss of the superhuman protector that it had relied so heavily upon to be their beacon in the dark. " _Where is Superman?_ " they asked. " _Man of Steel Missing._ " Even: " _Is the last son of Krypton dead?_ "

And when he sees them, their bold claims nailed to the side of Gotham buildings under a dark and starry sky, Dick smiles beneath the cowl.


End file.
